IHiiij 

■IJlll.Piiiiii'!i.i 

1 

hmimummnmmmmmnmWiiummmiimmniimimiiiimi 


GIFT   OF 
A.    F.    Morrison 


J- 


^ 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

O.    DOUGLAS  ^ 


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ANN 
AND  HER  MOTHER 


BY 

O.  DOUGLAS 

AUTHOR  OF  *'THE  SETONS,"    "pENNY  PLAIN,"  ETC. 


NEW  ^H^  YORK 
GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

^c..,  ./   -c  V  ^ 


C30PYRIGHT,   192^, 
BY  GEORGE  H.  DORAN   COMPANY 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER.  I 


PRINTED  IN  THE   UNITED  STATES  OF  AMERICA 


To 
ISOBEL  CUNNINGHAM 

*To  whatsoever  things  are  fair 

We  know,  through  you,  the  road; 
Nor  is  our  grief  the  less  thereby; 
O  swift  and  strong  and  dear,  Good-bye** 


iyj95611 


"In  this  age  of  opulence  and  refinement  whom 
can  such  a  character  please?  Such  as  are 
fond  of  high  life  will  turn  in  disdain  from  the 
simplicity  of  a  country  fireside.  Such  as  mis- 
take ribaldry  for  humour  will  find  no  wit  in 
this  harmless  conversation:  and  such  as  have 
been  taught  to  deride  religion  will  laugh  at 
one  whose  chief  stores  of  comfort  are  drawn 
from  futurity." 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 


CHAPTER   I 


MRS.  DOUGLAS  and  hertfaiighter  Ahii'sat 
together  in  their  living-room  one  November 
night. 

It  was  a  wonderfully  comfortable  room,  brightly 
yet  softly  lit,  and  warmed  by  a  noble  fire.  There 
was  a  pleasant  space  and  emptiness  about  it,  an 
absence  of  ornaments  and  irrelevant  photographs; 
each  piece  of  furniture,  each  of  the  few  pictures, 
was  of  value. 

Mrs.  Douglas  had  a  book  in  her  lap  and  in  her 
hand  a  half-finished  stocking,  for  she  considered 
that  she  was  wasting  time  if  she  did  not  knit  while 
reading. 

Ann  sat  on  a  stool  by  the  fire,  poring  over  a 
seedsman's  catalogue,  a  puzzled  frown  on  her 
brow. 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  without  looking  up,  *T  do 
wish  I  knew  more  about  gardening.  I  can't  make 
out  from  this  what  will  grow  best  with  us.  .  .  . 
Don't  you  think.  Mother,  it  is  almost  lese-majeste 
to  call  a  rose  Queen  Mary,  and  describe  it  as  *a 


II 


12     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

gross  feeder"?  Oh,  and  this!  Mr,  Asquitk,  'very 
compact  in  form,  rosy  in  colour.'  What  humourists 
the  compilers  of  seedsmen's  catalogues  are!  And 
what  poets!  Where  was  it  we  read  that  article 
about  catalogues?  It  said  that  the  very  names  were 
like  a  procession  of  princes — 'amber  and  carmine 
Queens,  and  Princes'  Feathers,  and  Cloth  of  Gold.' 
The  narne$  t^r^pt  one  simply  by  the  glory  of  the 
sound.  'Lovfc-iti-a-Mist  .  .  .  Love-Fire,  a  rich 
cream  with  a  faint  suggestion  of  apricot  primrose  in 
petal' — and  with  a  drop  one  learns  that  this  beauty 
can  be  bought  for  the  sum  of  tuppence!  .  .  . 
Delphiniums  we  must  have — dozens  of  them.  I 
can  picture  us  next  summer  lying  on  the  lawn  in 
deck-chairs  on  hot,  sunny  days,  looking  between 
tall,  blue  delphiniums  to  green  hilltops.  Won't  it 
be  lovely.  Mother*?" 

"H'm,"  said  her  mother  in  a  dry  voice,  "at  pres- 
ent you  have  only  the  hilltops.  I  haven't  imagin- 
ation enough  to  picture  the  hot  sun  and  the  lawn 
and  the  blue  delphiniums." 

''Mother!"  said  Ann,  wheeling  round  on  her 
stool  and  facing  her  parent,  who  was  knitting  with 
provoking  calm,  "there's  nothing  sporting  about  you 
at  all.  It  always  rains  in  November,  but  that's 
nobody's  fault,  and  you  might  at  least  try  to  look  as 
if  you  didn't  mind.  Nobody  ever  said  a  glen  was 
a  cheery  place  in  winter,  but,  myself,  I  like  it 
frightfully.     When  Uncle  Bob  left  me  the  Green 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       13 

Glen  for  my  very  own  I  determined  that  somehow 
or  other  I  would  manage  to  build  a  house  in  it — a 
little  white-faced  house  among  the  heather.  Not 
big,  but  big  enough  to  hold  us  all — six  good  bed- 
rooms, one  big  living-room,  a  hall  we  could  sit  in, 
a  smaller  room  to  feed  in.  You  all  made  objections 
— all  except  Charlotte,  who  encouraged  me.  You 
pointed  out  all  the  disadvantages :  six  miles  from  a 
station,  a  steep  hill  road,  carting  difficult!  You 
told  me  that  building  in  these  days  was  only  the 
pastime  of  a  millionaire,  but — the  house  is  built  and, 
l)ecause  the  architect  was  a  man  of  sense  and  listened 
to  what  I  wanted,  it  is  exactly  the  house  I  meant  it 
to  be  in  my  dreams,  so  'Dreams'  it  will  be  called." 

"I  thought  you  hated  new  houses?" 

"So  I  do,  except  when  it  is  my  own  house  in  my 
own  Green  Glen.  And  you  will  admit  that  it  is 
comfortable." 

"It's  very  bare,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said. 

"Well,  I  like  it  bare.  And  your  own  room  is 
far  from  bare.  It  is  more  like  a  museum  than  any- 
thing else,  with  so  many  mementoes  of  other  days 
hung  on  the  walls,  and  photographs  of  us  all  at 
every  age  and  in  every  attitude,  and  shelves  and 
shelves  of  devotional  books,  not  to  speak  of  all  the 
little  stucco  figures  you  have  cherished  for  years. 
Their  heads  have  been  gummed  on  so  often  they 
fall  off  if  you  look  at  them.  Davie  was  always 
being  entreated  by  you  to  mend  them,  and  he  found, 


14     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

finally,  that  Moses'  head  (or  was  it  Eli?)  would 
only  remain  on  if  turned  the  wrong  way  about — ■ 
so  his  beard  was  down  his  back  I  .  .  .  To  return 
to  'Dreams,'  I  admit  the  garden  is  still  unmade, 
and  the  road  a  mere  track,  but  wait  and  you  will 
see  it  blossom  like  the  rose.  We  shan't  have  any 
fences — there  is  no  need  for  them  among  the  hills^ 
and  the  heather  will  grow  to  the  edges  of  our  shaven 
lawns,  and  we'll  have  herbaceous  borders  as  gay  as 
a  carnation  ribbon,  and  beds  of  mignonette  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laid  down  her  stocking  and  looked 
at  her  daughter.  "No  fences?  And  rabbits  nib* 
bling  the  mignonette — it's  a  thing  they  have  a  par- 
ticular fancy  for;  and  sheep  eating  the  vegetables 
•  •  • 

"Go  on  with  your  stocking,  Motherkin,  and  don't 
try  to  be  crushing.  We'll  have  fences  then,  and 
wire  to  keep  out  the  rabbits,  and  we'll  cover  the 
fences  with  rambler  roses — the  bright  red  single 
kind;  I  don't  like  Dorothy  Perkins.  And  there's 
simply  no  end  to  what  we  can  do  with  the  burn; 
it  would  make  any  garden  fairyland,  with  those  shin- 
ing brown  pools  fringed  with  heather.  What  luck 
to  have  a  burn !  Before  the  house  we  are  going  to 
have  a  paved  bit,  so  that  you  can  go  out  and  take 
the  air  without  getting  your  feet  wet.  There  will 
be  no  'gravel  sweep,'  and  no  one  will  be  able  to  come 
to  our  door  except  on  their  own  feet,  for  the  road 
will  stop  a  long  way  from  the  house." 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       15 

Ann  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees,  and 
rocked  herself  in  joyful  anticipation. 

"I  remember,"  she  went  on,  "hearing  as  a  child 
some  one  praise  a  neighbourhood  with  the  phrase,  It 
is  full  of  carriage  people/  I  wondered  at  the  time 
what  kind  of  people  they  were,  and  if  they  perhaps 
had  their  abode  in  a  carriage,  like  a  snail  in  its 
shell!  When  'motor  people'  come  to  Dreams  they 
will  have  to  leave  their  motors  and  walk.  We  shall 
say  to  them,  like  True  Thomas,  'Light  down,  light 
down  from  your  horse  o'  pride.*  .  .  .  But,  Mother, 
is  this  really  going  to  bore  you  terribly?  Do  you 
miss  so  badly  the  giddy  round  of  Priorsford?  The 
pavements?    The  shops'?    The  tea-parties?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  gave  a  long  sigh.  "I  don't  want  to 
grumble,  but,  you  know,  I  always  did  say  it  was 
rash  to  attempt  to  stay  a  winter  in  the  Green  Glen. 
It's  well  enough  in  the  summer  (though  even  then 
I  would  prefer  to  be  nearer  civilisation),  and  fine 
for  the  children,  but  in  November,  with  the  fields 
like  sponges,  and  the  road  a  mere  Slough  of  Des- 
pond, and  the  hills  covered  with  mist  most  of  the 
time,  and  the  wind  coming  down  the  glen  howling 
like  an  evil  spirit,  and  the  station  six  miles  away, 
and  only  a  pony  trap  between  us  and  complete 
burial;  Mark  and  Charlotte  in  India,  and  Jim  in 
South  Africa,  and  the  children  in  Oxfordshire  with 
their  other  grandmother,  I  feel  like  a  pelican  in  the 
wilderness.    I  told  you  I  would,  and  I  do." 


i6     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"Poor  dear,  but  .  .  ." 

'Through  the  day  it  isn't  so  bad.  I  admit  the 
mornings  are  rather  beautiful,  and  when  it  happens 
to  be  fine  I  can  potter  about  outside,  and  Marget 
is  always  a  divert.  In  the  afternoon  when  it  rains 
(and  it  has  rained  practically  every  day  for  three 
weeks)  I  sew  and  write  letters  and  read,  and  there 
is  always  tea  to  look  forward  to.  But  in  the 
evenings — and  the  curtains  have  to  be  drawn  now 
about  four  o'clock — when  there  is  no  chance  of  a 
ring  at  the  bell,  no  postman,  no  telephone-call,  no 
stray  callers,  and  the  owls  hoot,  and  my  eyes  get 
tired  with  reading,  and  one  can't  knit  for  ever  even 
with  four  wild  grandchildren  to  knit  for,  well " 

"But,  my  dear,"  said  her  daughter,  "just  think 
how  you  will  appreciate  Priorsford  when  you  get 
back.  We  are  very  much  alone  just  now — it  was 
an  odd  chance  that  sent  Mark  and  Charlotte  to 
India  and  Jim  to  South  Africa  the  same  winter — 
but  don't  let's  have  to  remember  it  as  the  winter 
of  our  discontent.  .  .  .  We  must  face  facts. 
Neighbours  we  have  almost  none.  Mr.  Sharp,  at 
the  Manse,  is  practically  the  only  one,  and  he  is  so 
shy  that  speaking  to  him  is  like  trying  to  carry  on 
a  conversation  with  a  very  young  rabbit  in  a  trap. 
The  Scotts  aren't  so  very  far  away  as  the  crow  flies, 
only  over  the  other  side  of  the  hill,  but  it  is  five 
miles  round  by  the  road.  It's  an  unpeopled  world, 
but  the  great  thing  to  remember  is  that  any  moment 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       17 

you  please  you  can  have  a  case  packed,  order  the 
pony  trap,  drive  to  the  station,  buy  a  ticket,  and  in 
about  two  hours  you  would  be  in  Glasgow,  in  the 
Central  Station  Hotel,  among  all  the  city  gentle- 
men, feasting  your  eyes  on  people,  forgetting  the 
owls  in  listening  to  the  Glasgow  accent,  eating  large 
meals,  frequenting  picture  houses.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Douglas  dropped  both  her  book  and  stocking 
in  her  indignation. 

"Ann,  you  know  I  never  enter  a  picture  house, 
and  I  haven't  the  least  desire  to  go  to  Glasgow  in 
the  meantime." 

"I  tell  you  what,"  Ann  cried,  "go  in  for  a  course 
of  reading  and  improve  your  mind.  It's  an  oppor- 
tunity that  may  not  occur  again." 

"I'm  too  old  to  improve  my  mind;  besides,  it  isn't 
very  nice  of  you  to  suggest  that  it  needs  improving." 

Ann  studied  her  mother  with  her  head  on  one 
side.  "You're  sixty,  aren't  you*?  Sixty's  nothing. 
The  late  Mr.  Gladstone  learned  Arabic  when  he  was 
eighty.  Besides,  you  are  the  most  absurd  person  for 
sixty  I  ever  saw.  Your  hair  is  as  soft  and  brown 
as  it  was  when  you  were  thirty,  and  you  have  a  com- 
plexion that  is  the  envy  of  less  fortunate  women. 
And  the  odd  thing  is,  I  believe  you  hate  to  be  told 
so.    I  believe  you  want  to  look  old." 

"Last  summer,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "I  overheard 
Rory  say  to  Alison,  *Alis,  Gran  is  nearly  sixty;  I 
heard  her  say  so,'  and  Alls,  with  a  depth  of  pity  in 


i8     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

her  voice,  replied,  'Oh,  poor  Gran!'  But  when  I 
think  Fm  only  sixty  I  feel  like  pitying  myself.  In 
the  Times  last  night  there  were  six  people  among  the 
'Deaths'  who  were  over  ninety.  It  frightens  me  to 
think  that  I  may  live  to  a  great  age,  and,  perhaps, 
see  you  all  go  before  me — and  I  get  so  wearied  some- 
times for  your  father  and  the  boys.  ..." 

Ann  laid  her  hand  on  her  mother's.  "I  know," 
she  said,  "I  know.  But,  Mother,  are  those  who  are 
gone  so  much  more  dear  to  you  than  we  who  are 
left?  As  Pharaoh  said  to  Hadad :  'What  hast  thou 
lacked  with  us,  that,  behold,  thou  seekest  to  go  to 
thine  own  country*?'  " 

"Ah,  my  dear,  nothing^  but  ..." 

"The  old  answer,"  said  Ann.  "Nothing,  nothing 
— 'howbeit  let  me  go  in  any  wise.'  .  .  .  Well,  we 
have  wandered  from  our  subject.  What  do  you  say, 
Mums,  to  reading  Robert  Louis  right  through  *?  We 
have  the  Edinburgh  edition  here.  He  will  teach  you 
to  love  the  moorlands." 

Mrs.  Douglas  recoiled  in  horror  from  the  sug- 
gestion. 

"Oh  no !  No.  No.  The  very  name  of  R.  L.  S. 
makes  me  think  of  the  eternal  crying  of  whaups,  and 
we  are  fairly  beset  with  the  creatures  here.  Really 
to  appreciate  Robert  Louis  you  must  read  him  im- 
mersed in  a  town  with  no  hope  of  a  holiday,  or  on 
the  burning,  shining  plains  of  India,  or  on  the  South 
African  veldt.     To  read  there  of  'a  great,  rooty 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       19 

sweetness  of  bogs'  and  'the  infinite,  melancholy 
piping  of  hill-birds/  and  'winds  austere  and  pure' 
is  like  water  in  a  thirsty  land.  But  when  one  is 
seated  in  the  bogs,  and  deaved  by  the  hill-birds  it's 
only  an  irritation.  I'd  rather  read  Ethel  M.  Dell, 
and  warm  myself  with  the  thought  of  heroes  whose 
eyes  are  like  slumbering  volcanoes,  and  heroines  who 
generally  manage  to  get  a  flogging  from  some  one 
before  they  win  through  to  happiness." 

Ann  laughed.  "It's  quite  true.  Here  we  must 
read  books  hot  with  life,  full  of  intrigues  and  sensa- 
tional developments.  We  have  all  the  simplicity 
we  want  in  the  Green  Glen." 

Her  mother  sighed.  "I'm  not  really  discontented, 
Ann,  though  I'm  afraid  I  sound  so.  But  I  seem 
to  lead  such  a  useless  life  here.  A  few  letters  to 
sick  and  sad  people  is  all  I  accomplish.  If  there 
were  some  people  about  the  doors  whom  I  could 
visit  and,  perhaps,  help  a  little.  Once  a  minister's 
wife  always  a  minister's  wife.  I  can't  get  out  of 
the  habit  of  trying  to  help.  But  there's  only  old 
Geordie's  cottage,  and  he  hasn't  even  a  wife,  and 
he  wouldn't  thank  me  for  a  visit." 

"No,"  laughed  Ann.  "He  is  very  proud  of  being 
able  to  fend  for  himself,  and  hopes  to  die  without 
being  beholden  to  any  woman.  He  was  telling  me 
a  sad  tale  the  other  day  about  an  old  friend  of  his 
who  lived  alone  until  he  was  eighty,  and  then  fell 
ill  and  had  to  have  the  district  nurse,  who  insisted 


20     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

on  his  remaining  in  bed.  'To  think,'  said  Geordie, 
'that  a  man  should  live  to  be  aichty  and  be  over- 
powered by  a  wumman  in  the  end.'  But  I  can  quite 
see  that  the  lack  of  people  to  comfort  and  help  is  a 
great  lack  to  you — born  minister's  wife  that  you 
are." 

"Ah,  well,  I  made  many  mistakes,  but  my  heart 
was  in  my  job.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  me  to  know 
every  soul  in  the  church,  and  to  listen  to  all  they 
cared  to  tell  me  of  their  trials  and  their  troubles,  and 
to  be  asked  to  share  in  their  merrymakings ;  to  have 
the  right  to  laugh  and  cry  with  them.  The  wives 
used  to  say  when  your  father  intimated  visiting,  'I 
wish  the  mistress  wad  come  wi'  the  minister,  she's 
a  graund  cracker.'  Your  father  was  sometimes  ill- 
off  knowing  what  to  talk  about  in  the  different 
houses;  he  wasn't  one  of  those  glib  men  with  a  fund 
of  easy  phrases,  but  when  they  got  to  know  him 
they  liked  him  the  better  for  his  quietness,  and 
valued  his  few  words  more  than  other  people's  elo- 
quence. How  he  would  have  enjoyed  this.  Aim! 
He  loved  the  Green  Glen,  and  the  burn,  and  the 
whaups  crying." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  Mrs.  Douglas  sat  look- 
ing into  the  fire.  She  was  far  away  from  the  little 
house  among  the  hills.  She  was  young  again,  and 
the  husband  of  her  youth  was  once  more  at  her  side. 
Pictures,  softened  and  beautified  by  time,  unrolled 
themselves  before  her  eyes.     Children  played  in  a 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       21 

garden  among  flowers,  their  laughter  and  shouting 
came  to  her  ears,  she  could  see  their  faces  lifted  to 
hers ;  but  no  beckoning  could  bring  them  to  her,  for 
long  ago  they  had  grown  up  and  gone  away;  they 
were  but  dream  children  who  played  in  that  garden. 

Ann  watched  her  mother  with  a  soft  look  in  her 
grey  eyes.  "I've  been  thinking,  Mums,  you  ought 
to  write  your  Life'' 

Mrs.  Douglas  came  back  to  the  present  with  an 
effort.  ''Write  my  life^  But  I  did — don't  you 
remember?  On  that  yachting  cruise  we  went,  when 
the  sea  never  stayed  calm  except  for  a  few  hours. 
There  was  nothing  much  to  do,  so  I  wrote  my  life 
in  a  twopenny  pass-book,  with  a  pencil,  and  none  of 
you  were  at  all  encouraging  about  it.  I  read  it 
aloud  to  you  somewhere  about  the  Azores,  when  you 
were  lying  seasick  in  your  berth,  and  you  said  it 
made  you  feel  worse;  and  Charlotte  cried  from  the 
next  cabin,  'Ann,  what  is  wrong  with  Gran  that  she 
is  making  that  curious,  whining  sound?'  and  Mark 
printed  on  the  cover,  'The  Life  of  auld  Mistress 
Douglas  written  by  herself,'  and  then  it  got  lost." 

"I  remember,"  said  Ann.  "But  this  time  it  must 
be  done  properly.  You'll  tell  it  to  me  and  I'll  write 
it  down,  and  we'll  have  it  typed  and  perhaps  printed, 
so  that  the  children  when  they  grow  up  will  know 
what  a  queer  little  grandmother  was  theirs.  Let  me 
see — we'll  be  here  alone  until  the  Moncrieffs  come 
about  the  middle  of  December;  that  will  give  us  a 


22     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

month  to  work  at  it.  Two  hours  every  night,  per- 
haps more.     Does  that  please  you,  Motherkin?" 

"Ann,  you  are  trying  to  humour  an  old  woman. 
I  don't  suppose  the  children  would  ever  trouble  to 
read  my  Life^  except  perhaps  Alison — that  child  has 
a  strong  sense  of  duty;  but  I  must  say  I  would  enjoy 
remembering  it  all.  .  .  .  Here  are  Marget  and 
Mysie." 

The  two  servants  came  into  the  room  accompanied 
by  a  large  Persian  cat,  grey,  the  colour  of  a  Novem- 
ber sky.  This  beautiful  creature  had  been  named 
by  Ann  the  "Tatler,"  because  his  genius  for  falling 
into  photographic  attitudes  reminded  her,  she  said, 
of  those  ladies,  fair  and  fashionable,  whose  pictures 
adorn  the  weekly  pages  of  that  popular  journal. 

Marget  seated  herself  majestically.  She  was  a 
tall  woman,  with  a  broad,  honest  face,  and  hair 
pulled  straight  back  and  covered  by  a  cap — ^not  the 
flippant  scrap  of  muslin  with  a  bow  generally  worn, 
but  an  erection  of  coffee-coloured  lace,  with  touches 
of  crimson  velvet,  which  she  alluded  to  as  a  ''kep," 
and  which  gave  her  almost  a  regal  air. 

Marget  had  been  thirty-five  years  with  the  Doug- 
las family,  and  was  so  thoroughly  a  Douglas  that 
there  was  never  any  thought  of  keeping  her  in  her 
"place."  Mysie,  who  was  her  niece,  she  kept  under 
iron  control,  but  she  allowed  herself  much  latitude. 
No  one  knew  Marget's  age.  It  was  a  subject  on 
which   she   had   always   been   excessively   touchy. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       23 

When  the  Census  came  round  she  had  said,  "Fll  no' 
pit  it  doon  till  a'  the  bairns  are  oot,  an*  naebody  but 
the  maister'll  ken,  an'  he'll  no'  tell." 

She  met  all  questions  with  "I'm  as  auld  as  ma  lit- 
tle finger  an'  Fm  aulder  than  ma  teeth."  In  re- 
venge the  Douglases  had  intimated  to  their  friends 
that  they  had  inside  knowledge  that  Marget  was  at 
least  eighty. 

After  prayers  Mysie  left  the  room,  but  Marget 
generally  remained  for  a  "crack,"  delighting  to 
bandy  words  with  "Miss  Ann" — a  diversion  which 
to-night  ended  in  Ann  being  called  "a  daft  lassie." 

''Lassie!"  cried  Ann. 

"Ye'll  aye  be  a  lassie  to  me,"  Marget  told  her; 
"but,"  turning  to  her  mistress,  "is  it  true,  Mem, 
that  she's  gaun  to  write  yer  Life?  I  never  ken  when 
Miss  Ann's  speakin'  the  truth  and  when  she's  juist 
haverin'.  ...  It  wad  be  rale  interestin'.  Ye  wad 
need  to  pit  in  aboot  thon  daft  man  wha  cam'  to  see 
the  maister  and  the  pollis  efter  him,  an'  that  awfu' 
fricht  we  got  wi'  the  big  fire  in  the  linoleum  factory, 
and  aboot  the  man  wha  drooned  hissel  in  the  Panny 
Pond  and  floatit.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,  Marget,"  said  Ann,  "we'll  need  your  help 
to  decide  what  is  to  be  put  in.  One  thing,  of  course, 
must  go  in — your  age." 

Marget  rose  from  her  chair  with  a  we-are-not- 
amused  look,  put  the  Bibles  back  in  their  proper 


24     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

places,  dropped  her  delightful,  old-fashioned  curt- 
sey, walked  to  the  door,  and  said  before  she  closed 
it  behind  her: 

"Ye  wadna  daur.     An',  what's  mair,  ye  dinna 
ken  it." 


CHAPTER   II 

TWO  nights  later,  when  the  stars  had  come  out 
to  look  down  at  the  Green  Glen  and  the  cur- 
tains were  drawn  in  Dreams,  Ann  sat  down  before 
a  small  table  on  which  lay  a  pile  of  paper  and  a 
fountain-pen,  and  told  her  mother  that  she  was  now 
ready  to  write  her  Life, 

"But  how  do  you  begin  a  Life?''  Mrs.  Douglas 
asked.  She  was  sitting  in  her  favourite  low  chair, 
doing  what  she  called  her  "reading."  Beside  her 
was  a  pile  of  devotional  books,  from  each  of  which 
she  read  the  portion  for  the  day.  Nothing  would 
make  her  miss  this  ceremony,  and  she  carted  the 
whole  pile  about  with  her  wherever  she  went. 

"Shall  I  give  you  the  date  of  my  birth  and  say 
that  I  was  the  child  of  poor  but  honest  parents? 
I  seem  to  remember  that  beginning." 

"No,"  Ann  decided,  "we'll  leave  dates  alone; 
they  are  'chiels  that  winna  ding.'  The  point  is, 
what  style  would  you  like  me  to  write  it  in?  We 
might  begin  like  The  Arabian  Nights — It  is  related 
(but  God  alone  is  all-knowing,  as  well  as  all- wise 
and  all-mighty  and  all-bountiful)  that  there  was  in 
ancient  times  a  fair  virgin,  Helen.  .  .  .'  But  I 
think,  perhaps,  your  history  is  too  tame  and  domestic 
for  such  a  highly  coloured  style." 


26     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"I  should  think  so,  indeed,"  said  her  mother,  as 
she  laid  down  Hours  of  Silence  and  took  up  Come 
ye  Apart, 

"What  about  the  Russian  touch?"  Ann  asked, 
waving  her  pen.  "Like  this:  'She  turned  upon  her 
pillow,  tearing  at  its  satin  cover  with  her  nails, 
then,  taking  a  spoonful  of  bromide,  she  con- 
tinued  '  " 

"Oh,  Ann — don't  be  ridiculous!" 

"Or  shall  I  dispense  entirely  with  commas,  in- 
verted and  otherwise,  and  begin  without  a  beginning 
at  all,  as  the  very  best  people  do?  It  does  make 
Aunt  Agatha  so  angry,  that  sort  of  book,  where  no 
explanations  are  offered,  and  you  suddenly  find 
yourself  floundering  among  a  lot  of  Christian  names. 
Anyway,  it's  much  too  clever  for  me  to  attempt! 
I'm  afraid  we  must  confine  ourselves  to  a  plain 
narrative,  with  no  thoughts,  only  incidents.  I  think 
I'll  begin :  'In  my  youth  I  wasna  what  you  would 
ca'  bonnie,  but  I  was  pale,  penetratin',  and  inter- 
estin'.'    How  is  that?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head.  She  had  reached 
From  Day  to  Day^  and  would  soon  be  at  the  apex 
of  the  pile.  Golden  Grain.  "If  you  are  going  to 
describe  my  appearance  you  might  at  least  be  ac- 
curate." 

"Well,"  said  her  daughter,  "I  only  know  you 
from  a  very  old  photograph  as  a  moon-faced  child 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       27 

with  tight  curls,  and  then,  later,  with  two  babies 
and  a  capl    What  were  you  really  like?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  sat  very  upright,  with  a  becoming 
pink  flush  on  her  face  and  a  little  smile  at  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth.  "I  can  see  myself  the  day  I  met 
your  father  for  the  first  time.  I  had  on  my  first  silk 
dress — royal  blue  it  was — and  a  locket  with  a  black 
velvet  ribbon  round  my  neck,  and  my  hair  most 
elaborately  done  in  what  was  called  a  *mane,'  some 
rolled  up  on  the  top,  some  hanging  down.  My  hair 
was  my  best  point.  It  was  thick  and  wavy,  and  as 
yellow  as  corn.  Your  father  always  said  he  fell  in 
love  with  the  back  of  my  head.  Who  would  believe 
it  who  saw  me  now*?" 

"  Taigs,  ye' re  no'  bad,'  as  Marget  would  say," 
Ann  comforted  her.  "As  one  gets  older  looks  are 
chiefly  a  matter  of  dress.  When  you  take  pains 
with  your  clothes  no  woman  of  your  age  looks  better; 
but  when  you  wander  out  in  a  rather  seedy  black 
dress,  with  a  dejected  face  under  a  hat  that  has  seen 
better  days,  you  can't  wonder  at  what  my  friend 
Mrs.  Bell  said  after  meeting  you  one  wet  day :  *Eh, 
puir  auld  buddy;  she's  an  awfu'  worrit-lookin' 
wumman;  it  fair  makes  me  no'  weel  to  look  at  her !'  " 

"Yes,  Ann,  but  you  shouldn't  have  laughed.  I 
don't  like  that  Mrs.  Bell.  She's  a  forward  woman, 
and  you  spoil  her." 

"Oh,  I  told  her  you  weren't  really  old,  but  those 
women    are    so    surprisingly    young.     They    have 


28     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

grown-up  families  and  hordes  of  grandchildren,  and 
you  think  they  are  at  least  seventy  and  they  turn  out 
to  be  fifty.  Of  course,  it  was  rather  disrespectful 
of  her  to  call  you  'puir  auld  buddy,'  but  the  'awfu' 
worrit-lookin' '  was  such  an  exact  description  of  you 
doing  good  works  on  a  wet  day  in  your  old  clothes 
that  I  had  to  laugh.    But  we're  not  getting  on." 

"It's  absurd  to  talk  of  writing  my  life,"  Mrs. 
Douglas  said.  "There  is  nothing  worth  telling 
about.  I  asked  Alison  last  summer  what  she  was 
going  to  be,  and  she  tossed  back  that  yellow  mane 
of  hers,  and  said  earnestly,  'Well,  Gran,  I  did  think 
of  being  a  poet,  but  I've  decided  just  to  be  an  ordi- 
nary woman  with  a  baby.'  That's  all  I  ever  was. 
An  ordinary  woman  with  several  babies  and  a  man 
and  a  kirk  to  look  after — a  big  handful  for  any 
woman.  I'd  better  begin  where,  for  me,  the  world 
first  began,  at  Etterick.  You  remember  the  old 
house,  don't  you,  with  its  white-washed  walls  and 
high  pointed  roof,  standing  at  the  end  of  the  village? 
When  I  think  of  it  it  always  seems  to  be  summer; 
the  shadow  of  the  house  falling  black  across  the 
white  road,  a  baker's  van  standing  in  the  village, 
and  one  of  the  wives  holding  out  her  white  apron 
for  loaves,  a  hen  clucking  sleepily,  the  hum  of  the 
bees  among  the  flowers  in  the  old  garden,  the  clink- 
clink  from  the  smiddy  at  the  burnside,  my  mother  in 
a  thin  blue  dress  standing  in  the  doorway  with  a 
basket  on  her  arm — the  peace  of  a  summer  after- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       29 

noon !  And  the  smell  of  it  I  New-mown  grass  dry- 
ing in  the  sun,  indescribable  sweet  scents  from  the 
flower-thick  roadsides,  the  smiddy  smell  of  hot  iron 
sizzling  on  big  hoofs,  wafts  from  the  roses  in  the 
garden — those  most  fragrant,  red,  loose-petalled 
roses  that  now  I  never  see.  Inside  the  house  was 
cool  and  dark,  with  drawn  blinds.  D'you  remem- 
ber the  parlour?  I  can  tell  you  where  every  bit  of 
furniture  in  it  stood.  The  bureau  behind  the  door, 
and  along  the  wall  the  old,  wide  sofa.  Fve  often 
told  you  about  the  upholsterer  from  Priorsford,  who 
came  to  prescribe  for  it  when  its  springs  began  to 
subside?  He  had  a  lisp,  and  after  the  examination 
was  finished  he  said  simply  and  finally,  'The  thofo's 
done.'  How  we  laughed  over  that,  and  the  'thofo' 
held  on  for  another  twenty  years,  never  getting  much 
worse.  Yes,  the  piano  came  next  to  the  sofa,  and 
then  the  wide  window  with  all  the  little  panes.  The 
tea-table  stood  there  in  summer,  and  one  could  see 
all  who  passed  by.  'The  day  the  chaise  and  pair 
gaed  through  Caddonfoot'  was  a  saying  in  the  coun- 
tryside, but  Etterick  boasted  carts  and  carriages  in 
some  profusion.  I  wonder  if  my  mother's  teas  were 
really  better  than  anyone  else's?  The  cream  so 
thick  that  it  had  to  be  helped  out  of  the  jug  with  a 
spoon!  And  the  'thin'  scones  coated  with  fresh- 
churned  butter !  My  dear  Robbie  revelled  in  them. 
He  wrote  from  India,  you  remember,  that  when 
camping  they  ran  short  of  bread,  and  the  cook  said 


30     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

he  would  bake  some  chupattis.  'And/  wrote  Rob- 
bie, 'by  the  grace  of  God  the  chupattis  turned  out 
to  be  my  grandmother's  "thin"  scones  I'  " 

"I  remember,"  said  Ann.  "He  introduced  me  to 
them  when  I  went  out.  Wasn't  the  house  at  Etter- 
ick  an  inn  once*?" 

"Yes,  and  all  the  rooms  had  numbers  painted  on 
the  doors.  No.  8  was  your  nursery  when  we  used  to 
spend  the  summer  there.  And  the  playroom  was 
called  'Jenny  Berry' — why,  I  don't  know;  the  rea- 
son for  the  name  is  lost  in  the  mists  of  antiquity.  It 
was  the  first  place  you  all  rushed  to  the  moment  you 
arrived,  in  a  fever  to  see  if  your  treasures  were  safe, 
and  you  always  found  them  just  as  you  left  them. 
My  mother  was  a  very  understanding  woman  with 
children.  She  wasn't,  perhaps,  a  very  tender  grand- 
mother as  grandmothers  go  now,  and  you  children 
held  her  in  some  awe ;  but  you  valued  her  good  opin- 
ions, and  you  knew  her  to  be  absolutely  just.  She 
seldom  praised,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  never 
damped  your  enthusiasms.  'Never  daunton  young 
folk'  was  one  of  her  favourite  sayings.  Yes.  I'm 
afraid  she  was  somewhat  intolerant,  poor  dear. 
She  had  a  great  contempt  for  the  gossiping,  crochet- 
ing, hen-headed  female  that  abounded  in  her  day. 
*A  frivolous  woman,'  she  would  say  after  a  visit 
from  such  a  one,  'fit  for  nothing  but  fancy  work  and 
novelettes.'  Good  looks  appealed  to  her  enor- 
mously, and  she  was  glad  all  you  children  had  what 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      31 

she  called  'china'  faces;  swarthy  people  she  could 
not  abide.  We  took  Mrs.  Alston  to  see  her  when 
she  was  staying  with  us  one  summer  at  Caddonfoot 
— dear  Mrs.  Alston,  with  her  dun  skin  and  project- 
ing teeth  and  her  heart  of  gold !  Your  grandmother 
was  the  frailest  little  body  then,  only  her  indomit- 
able spirit  kept  her  going,  and  Mrs.  Alston  fussed 
over  her  and  deferred  to  her  in  the  kindest  way.  But 
the  blandishments  were  all  to  no  purpose ;  she  looked 
coldly  at  the  visitor,  and  afterwards,  when  I  told  her 
what  a  fine  woman  Mrs.  Alston  was,  and  what  fine 
work  she  had  done  in  the  mission-field,  all  the  an- 
swer I  got  was,  'Oh,  I  dare  say,  but  I  never  took 
my  tea  with  a  worse-looking  woman.'  " 

"I  remember  that,"  said  Ann.  "I  remember  how 
Father  shouted  when  you  told  him.  Granny  was 
often  very  amusing,  but  what  I  remember  most  about 
her  was  her  sense  of  comfort." 

"Yes,  if  Fve  any  notion  how  to  make  a  house  com- 
fortable I  got  it  from  my  mother.  She  was  great 
in  preparing  for  people.  If  we  had  only  gone  to 
Priorsford  for  the  day  she  made  of  our  return  a  sort 
of  festival.  Out  on  the  doorstep  to  meet  us,  fires 
blazing,  tea  ready,  and  such  a  budget  to  tell  us  of 
the  small  events  of  the  day.  Some  women  are  so 
casual  with  their  children,  they  don't  thirl  them  to 
themselves.  They  let  them  go  and  come,  and  seem 
to  take  very  little  interest  in  their  comings  and  their 
goings,  don't  even  trouble  to  be  in  the  house  when 


32     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

the  boys  come  home  for  the  holidays;  suppose 
vaguely  that  this  one  or  that  one  will  be  home  to-day 
or  to-morrow,  never  think  of  preparing  a  welcome. 
And  then  they  wonder  that  their  children  have  no 
love  for  their  home;  that  when  they  go  out  into  the 
world,  they  don't  trouble  to  write  except  at  infre- 
quent intervals;  that  sometimes  their  lives  drift  so 
far  apart  that  they  cannot  hear  each  other  speak." 

"Mother,"  said  Ann,  "you  speak  wisely,  but  how 
much  of  this  is  to  go  down  in  your  Life?  At  present 
I  have  only  got  that  you  had  yellow  hair  and  a  royal 
blue  silk  dress  and  a  locket.  Oughtn't  I  to  say 
something  about  your  childhood  and  what  influ- 
enced you  and  all  that  sort  of  thing?  Do  try  to  re- 
member some  thoughts  you  had;  you  know  the  sort 
of  thing  these  'strong'  novels  are  full  of — your  feel- 
ings when  you  found  they  had  drowned  your  kitten 
— and  weren't  you  ever  misunderstood  and  driven 
to  weep  floods  of  tears  in  secret?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head.  "No,  I  never  was 
clever  enough  to  think  the  things  children  think  in 
modern  novels.  And  I  don't  remember  being  mis- 
understood, except  that  I  was  always  considered 
rather  a  forward  child  when  really  I  suffered  much 
from  shyness.  One  morning,  with  a  great  effort,  I 
managed  to  say  to  old  Sibbald,  It's  a  fine  morning,' 
as  I  passed  him.  'What  are  ye  sayin'  noo  wi'  yer 
impertinence?'  was  his  most  uncalled-for  response. 
I  think  my  childhood  was  too  happy  to  have  any  his- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       33 

tory.  One  of  a  big  family,  with  freedom  to  roam, 
and  pets  in  abundance,  I  never  had  a  dull  minute. 
And  Etterick  was  a  very  interesting  village,  full  of 
characters." 

"Wasn't  there  somebody  called  ^Granny'  you  used 
to  tell  us  stories  about  ^" 

"My  mother's  nurse.  She  died  before  you  were 
born.  The  very  wee-est  woman  that  ever  was — I 
used  to  pick  her  up  and  carry  her  about — and  so 
bonnie,  with  a  white-goffered  mutch  framing  her 
face.  We  all  loved  that  little  old  woman.  She 
lived  in  a  tiny  house  at  the  top  of  the  village  with 
Tam,  her  husband ;  all  her  family  were  up  and  mar- 
ried and  away.  'Granny'  was  our  refuge  in  every 
kind  of  storm — indeed,  she  was  everybody's  refuge. 
And  she  had  a  great  heart  in  her  little  body.  It  was 
told  of  her  that  when  her  eldest  boy  ran  away  to 
Edinburgh  and  enlisted,  she  made  a  pot  of  broth 
and  baked  a  baking  of  scones  for  the  children  left 
at  home,  strapped  the  baby  on  her  back,  walked  into 
Edinburgh,  bought  the  boy  off,  and  walked  back 
again — fifty-six  miles  in  all !  We  have  almost  lost 
the  use  of  our  legs  in  these  days  of  trains  and  mo- 
tors. She  never  asked  anything  from  anybody.  I 
can  remember  her  face  when  some  well-meaning  per- 
son offered  her  charity.  'Na,  na,  thank  ye  kindly. 
I  may  be  sodger-clad,  but  I'm  major-minded.'  And 
there  was  old  Peggy  Leithen,  who  gave  a  ha'penny 
to  every  beggar  that  came  to  the  door,  murmuring  as 


34     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

she  did  so,  'Charity  covereth  a  multitude  of  sins/ 
and  graphically  described  her  conversion:  'I  juist 
got  the  blessin'  when  ma  knee  was  on  the  edge  o' 
the  bed  steppin'  in  ahint  Geordie/  And  there  was 
Jock  Look-Up — ^but  I  could  go  on  for  hours.  I 
think  I  was  thirteen  when  I  went  to  a  boarding- 
school.  I  enjoyed  that,  too — all  except  the  getting 
up  to  practise  on  winter  mornings.  I  can  feel  now 
the  chill  of  the  notes  on  my  numb  fingers.  I  was 
going  back  to  school  for  another  year  when  I  met 
your  father  and  got  married  instead." 

"Seventeen,  weren't  you*?" 

"Seventeen,  and  childish  at  that.  I  never  had  my 
hair  up  till  my  marriage  day.  Your  father  was 
twenty-six." 

"Babes!"  said  Ann. 

"It's  odd  how  things  come  about,"  said  Mrs. 
Douglas,  as  she  put  the  last  of  the  text-books  on  the 
pile,  and  took  off  the  large,  round-eyed  tortoise- 
shell  spectacles  that  she  wore  when  doing  her 
"reading."  "Dr.  Watts,  our  own  minister,  was 
ordered  to  the  South  of  France  for  the  winter,  and 
your  father,  who  had  just  finished  with  college,  came 
to  take  his  place.  We  were  used  to  fine  ministers  in 
Etterick.  Dr.  Watts  was  a  saint  and  a  scholar,  and 
the  parish  minister  was  one  of  God's  most  faithful 
servants — both  were  men  of  dignity  and  power. 
But  your  father  was  so  young  and  ardent;  he  went 
through  the  district  like  a  flame.    He  held  meetings 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       35 

in  lonely  glens  where  no  meeting  had  ever  been 
held  before.  He  kindled  zeal  in  quiet  people  who 
had  been  content  to  let  things  go  on  as  they  had  al- 
ways gone;  it  was  a  wonderful  six  months.  Your 
Aunt  Agatha,  who,  being  older,  had  left  school 
before  I  did,  wrote  to  tell  me  of  this  extraordinary 
young  man;  indeed,  her  letters  were  so  full  of  him 
that  I  made  up  my  mind  to  dislike  him  at  sight. 
And  after  I  did  meet  him  I  pretended  to  myself  and 
to  Agatha  that  I  thought  him  a  very  tiresome  young 
man.  I  mimicked  the  way  he  sang  hymns  and  his 
boyish,  off-hand  manner,  so  unlike  Dr.  Watts'  grave, 
aloof  ways.  I  wish  I  had  words,  Ann,  to  give  you 
some  idea  of  the  man  your  father  was  in  his  youth. 
As  he  grew  older  he  grew  not  less  earnest,  but  more 
tolerant — ^mellower,  perhaps,  is  the  word.  As  a 
young  man  he  was  like  a  sword-blade,  pure  and  keen. 
And  yet  he  was  such  a  boy  with  it  all,  or  I  never 
would  have  dared  to  marry  him.  I  had  absolutely 
no  training  for  a  minister's  wife,  but  I  went  into  it 
quite  blithely.  Now,  looking  back,  I  wonder  at 
myself.  At  the  time  I  was  like  the  little  boy  march- 
ing bravely  into  a  dark  room,  his  bigger  brother  ex- 
plaining the  phenomena  with  'He  hasna  the  sense 
to  be  feart.'  " 

"There's  a  lot  in  that,"  said  Ann.  "But  think 
what  a  loss  to  the  world  if  you  had  remained  a  spin- 
ster— it  hardly  bears  thinking  of !  Well,  we  haven't 
got  very  far  to-night.    To-morrow  you  must  tell  me 


36     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

all  about  the  wedding.  I  know  Alison  would  like 
to  hear  about  the  tiny,  white,  kid  lacing  shoes  with 
pale  blue  rosettes  that  I  used  to  look  at  in  a  drawer. 
I  believe  they  finished  up  in  a  jumble  sale." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Douglas  confessed.  "It  was  the 
first  one  we  ever  had,  and  you  know  the  sort  of  mad- 
ness that  seizes  you  when  you  see  people  eager  to 
buy.  I  rushed  home  and  looked  out  everything  we 
could  do  without — ^my  wedding  slippers  among  the 
lot.  And  poor  old  Mrs.  Buchanan,  in  a  sort  of 
ecstasy  of  sacrifice,  climbed  up  to  her  kitchen  shelf 
and  brought  down  the  copper  kettle  that  in  her 
saner  moments  she  cherished  like  saffron,  and  threw 
it  on  the  pyre.  The  sale  was  for  Women's  Foreign 
Missions,  and  when  at  the  end  of  the  most  strenu- 
ous evening  any  of  us  had  ever  spent  the  treasurer 
and  I  lugged  our  takings  home  in  a  cab,  her  husband 
met  us  at  the  door,  and,  lifting  the  heavy  bag,  said, 
'I  doubt  it's  Alexander  the  coppersmith.'  But  it 
wasn't;  it  was  fully  £100.  Dear,  dear,  the  excite- 
ments of  a  ministerial  life !" 


CHAPTER  III 

NOW  that  the  visitors  are  gone,"  said  Ann, 
"we'll  go  on  with  our  wedding  number. 
Who  complained  of  the  dullness  of  the  Green  Glen*? 
Three  visitors — the  whole  neighbourhood  you  may 
say — in  one  afternoon :  first  the  parson,  then  the  two 
Miss  Scotts.  As  I  came  down  the  burnside  I  saw 
them  go  up  to  the  door,  and  I  said  to  myself  in  the 
words  of  the  old  beadle  who  was  asked  what  sort  of 
congregation  was  gathering:  'Graund!  Twa  wee- 
men  pourin'  in.'  Didn't  you  like  them,  Mother? 
The  Miss  Scotts,  I  mean*?  I  thought  their  weather- 
beaten  faces  very  attractive,  and  their  voices  so  sur- 
prisingly soft  and  clear.  Somehow  I  had  expected 
voices  rather  loud  and  strident,  to  go  with  their 
workman-like  clothes  and  heavy  boots.  The 
younger  one  specially  attracted  me — they  way  she 
beamed  through  her  spectacles  and  said  'Yes'  unex- 
pectedly, whenever  a  pause  occurred  in  the  conver- 
sation. They  are  going  to  help  me  a  lot  with  the 
garden;  their  own  place  is  lovely.  It's  a  nice  happy 
way  to  end  one's  days — living  peacefully  among 
growing  flowers !  Think  of  all  the  old  women  who 
live  in  hotels  and  boarding-houses,  quite  comfort- 
able, I  dare  say,  so  far  as  fires  and  light  and  a  good 

37 


38     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

bed,  and  well-cooked  food  go,  but  so  barren  of  all 
interest  except  a  morbid  curiosity  about  their  fellow- 
prisoners  !    How  spacious  a  country  life  is !  .  .  ." 

"Oh  yes,"  her  mother  broke  in  impatiently;  "but 
hotel  life  can  be  very  interesting,  and  there  is  nothing 
I  enjoy  so  much  as  watching  my  neighbours.  ...  I 
wonder  why  Mr.  Sharp  likes  telling  funny  stories'?" 

"Shyness  goads  him  to  it,"  Ann  said.  "It's  the 
same  thing  that  makes  me  chatter  like  a  swallow 
when  I  am  with  impressive  people  and  ought  to  hold 
my  peace.  He's  a  decent  lad,  Mr.  Sharp,  but  I  wish 
that  when  I  meet  him  outside  he  wouldn't  treat  me 
like  a  funeral.  He  doesn't  look  at  me,  but  removes 
his  hat  when  passing.    Shyness  again,  I  suppose." 

"He  has  a  housekeeper,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said,  as 
she  picked  up  a  stitch.  "It's  a  pity  he  hasn't  a  wife. 
In  a  quiet  place  like  this  the  Manse  should  be  a  cen- 
tre for  the  district.  Don't  you  think,  Ann,  if  we 
asked  Nina  Strachen,  or " 

"Mother,"  said  Ann  solemnly,  "I  utterly  refuse 
to  have  anything  to  do  with  your  matchmaking 
efforts.  Just  let  your  mind  dwell  for  a  little  on  the 
result  of  your  last." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sighed.  "Poor  George  Reid !  But 
it  wasn't  marrying  killed  him.  He  couldn't  have 
got  a  better  wife  than  Jeanie  Robb.  The  doctors 
said  the  trouble  had  been  going  on  for  a  long  time, 
and,  anyway,  the  last  months  of  his  life  were  as 
comfortable  as  they  could  be  made.     If  he  hadn't 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       39 

married  he  would  have  been  dependent  on  fremt 
women,  for  he  hadn't  a  soul  of  his  own;  and  Jeanie 
gets  the  Widows'  Fund,  so  you  can't  regret  the  mar- 
riage having  taken  place." 

"Practical  woman!"  laughed  Ann.  "But  we 
must  get  on  with  your  own  wedding  now — we  are 
making  no  progress  at  all.  When  I  think  of  what 
Hugh  Walpole  or  Compton  Mackenzie  can  make 
out  of  somebody's  childhood,  I  blush  for  my  few 
bald  sentences.  About  your  wedding — did  my 
grandmother  choose  your  things?  When  I  knew  her 
she  took  very  little  interest  in  clothes,  just  wore 
whatever  was  brought  to  her." 

"Ah,  but  she  wasn't  always  like  that.  I  remem- 
ber Agatha  and  myself  almost  in  tears  begging  her 
not  to  get  a  purple  silk  dress  and  bonnet  which  she 
much  desired,  as  we  thought  them  absurdly  youthful 
for  her  years.  Poor  body !  I  don't  believe  she  was 
more  than  forty.    Daughters  can  be  very  unfeeling." 

"They  can,"  Ann  agreed,  with  a  twinkle.  "My 
poor  grandmother!  What  a  shame  to  deprive  her 
of  her  purple  silk !  If  you  and  Aunt  Agatha  could 
have  looked  forward  forty  years  and  seen  grand- 
mothers with  dresses  almost  to  their  knees,  dancing, 
playing  tennis,  frivolling,  hardly  recognisable  from 
the  eighteen-year-olds,  I  wonder  what  you  would 
have  thought.  Well,  who  did  buy  your  trousseau? 
Aunt  Agatha?" 

"No,  she  was  less  sophisticated  even  than  I  was. 


40     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

My  stand-by  was  Miss  Ayton.  My  mother  trusted 
her  judgment  and  her  taste  and  asked  her  help,  and 
Miss  Ayton  was  only  too  willing  to  give  it;  for, 
spinster  of  fifty  as  she  was,  she  loved  a  marriage. 
She  was  one  of  those  delightful  women  who  can  be 
vividly  interested  in  their  neighbours'  business  with- 
out ever  being  a  nuisance,  and  she  presided  like  a 
stout,  benign  fairy  over  my  nuptials,  getting  things 
done,  it  seemed,  by  a  wave  of  her  wand." 

Mrs.  Douglas  let  her  knitting  fall  on  her  lap,  and 
lay  back  in  her  chair,  smiling. 

"First  I  was  whisked  off  to  Edinburgh  to  have 
some  lessons  in  cooking  (I  knew  absolutely  nothing 
about  anything).  High-class  cooking  it  was  called, 
I  suppose  because  nearly  every  recipe  called  in  the 
most  casual  way  for  a  dozen  of  eggs  and  a  bottle  of 
sherry.  Not  the  sort  of  cooking  required  for  a 
manse,  you  will  say.  .  .  ." 

Ann  looked  up  from  her  writing.  "Hadn't  you 
— I  seem  to  remember — a  cookery  book  from  that 
class,  a  fat  green  book^  It  stood,  for  some  reason, 
on  the  nursery  bookshelf,  and  was  a  sort  of  Alad- 
din's Cave  to  us  children.  We  pored  over  it,  read- 
ing aloud  the  rich,  strange  ingredients,  and  lay  on 
our  faces  gazing  enraptured  at  the  picture  of  a  din- 
ner-table laid  for  about  sixty  people,  where  each 
napkin  was  folded  in  a  different  way,  and  pheasants 
with  long  tail-feathers  sat  about  in  dishes,  and 
brightly  tinted  jellies  and  creams  and  trifles  made 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       41 

it  blossom  like  a  fairy  garden.  That  picture  always 
made  us  so  hungry  that  we  had  to  have  'a.  piece'  all 
round  after  looking  at  it.  .  .  .  Why  do  I  connect 
that  cookery  book  with  Communions'?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed.  "Because  at  Commimion 
times,  when  we  had  strange  ministers  assisting  we 
had  puddings  out  of  that  book,  at  least  expurgated 
editions  of  them.  I  have  that  book  in  my  room 
now.  It  is  too  much  a  bit  of  my  past  for  me  ever 
to  part  with  it.  It  has  been  with  me  since  the  start. 
At  first  it  was  all  that  stood  between  me  and  blank 
ignorance,  and  now  it  is  a  reminder  of  the  days  that 
seem  like  a  happy  dream.  Well,  the  book  and  the 
cookery  lessons  were  due  to  Miss  Ayton.  Or,  was 
it  Mrs.  Watts  first  suggested  I  should  learn  cooking*? 
I  believe  it  was.  There  was  never  anyone  so  prac- 
tical as  Mrs.  Watts,  dear  woman.  I  always  regret 
that  she  was  gone  before  you  grew  up,  Ann;  you 
would  have  delighted  in  her.  She  was  a  daughter 
of  the  great  Dr.  Grierson — that  mighty  preacher 
and  statesman — and  she  had  much  of  the  Grierson 
charm.  Her  husband.  Dr.  Watts,  was  laird  as 
well  as  minister,  and  they  didn't  live  at  the  Manse, 
but  at  their  own  place,  Fennanhopes.  It  was 
about  the  greatest  treat  we  had  as  children,  to  be 
invited  to  Fennanhopes,  and  I  can't  think  why  we 
liked  it  so  much,  for  whenever  we  arrived  Mrs. 
Watts  would  say,  'Now,  friends,'  and  in  a  trice 
she  had  us  all  working  hard.    Some  picked  currants. 


42     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

some  went  to  bring  in  the  eggs,  some  weeded — ^but 
we  all  did  something.  We  wouldn't  have  done  it 
for  anyone  else,  but  we  liked  to  please  Mrs.  Watts. 
She  kept  everybody  busy:  visitors  (the  house  was 
always  full),  village,  the  whole  countryside,  and 
there  is  no  doubt  that  the  state  of  being  pleasantly 
busy  is  the  best  we  can  attain  to  in  this  world.  Mrs. 
Watts  was  a  noted  housewife,  and  servants  trained 
by  her  were  eagerly  sought  for.  I  remember  going, 
during  one  Assembly  time  in  Edinburgh,  to  a  meet- 
ing at  which  Mrs.  Watts  was  to  speak.  One  knew 
what  to  expect  as  a  rule — a  rather  gasped-out,  tepid 
little  homily  from  the  wife  of  one  or  other  well- 
known  divine;  but  I  rather  thought  Mrs.  Watts 
would  be  different.  I  waited  with  interest,  and 
presently  she  stepped  on  to  the  platform,  looking 
so  big  and  fine  and  of  the  open  air,  spoke  for  a  few 
minutes  in  her  clear,  round  voice,  and  then,  looking 
round  the  meeting  with  friendly  eyes  she  said,  'Now, 
friends,  I  am  going  to  tell  you  how  to  make  really 
good  coffee'  " 

Ann  laughed.  "What  a  dear!  I  wish  I  had 
known  her.  I  can  just  remember  Dr.  Watts.  It 
seemed  to  me,  standing  somewhere  about  his  knees, 
that  his  head  must  be  dangerously  near  the  clouds, 
and  I  remember  his  gentle  voice  saying  to  me,  *It 
will  take  you  a  long  time  to  grow  as  big  as  I  am.' 
.  .  .  Yes,  and  so  between  Mrs.  Watts  and  Miss 
Ayton  you  learned  something  about  cooking.    And 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       43 

who  chose  your  trousseau,  and  all  your  'providing'  V 

"Miss  Ay  ton,  really,  but  of  course  my  mother  was 
there  too,  and  I  was  there,  though  I  don't  think  I 
was  supposed  to  have  an  opinion.  You  would  laugh 
at  my  things  now,  but  they  were  considered  very 
handsome — the  best  that  could  be  had  at  Kenning- 
ton  &  Jenner's." 

"What !  Was  Jenner's  in  Princes  Street  in  those 
day^?"  cried  Ann,  astonished. 

"Dear  me,  why  shouldn't  Jenner's  have  been  in 
Princes  Street  then^  Really,  Ann,  you  talk  as  if 
it  were  before  the  Flood.  I  assure  you  my  clothes 
caused  something  of  a  sensation  in  the  countryside." 

"I'm  sure  they  did.  I  knew  you  had  a  sealskin 
coat,  for  it  ended  its  long  and  useful  existence  as 
capes  for  Robbie  and  me.  I  liked  mine,  but  Robbie 
wept  bitterly,  and  said  only  coachmen  wore  capes. 
And  you  had  a  bonnet,  hadn't  you?  A  bonnet  at 
seventeen !" 

"A  prune-coloured  bonnet,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas, 
"high  in  front,  and  worn  with  a  prune-coloured  silk 
dress  and  the  sealskin  coat.  Those  were  my  'going- 
away'  things.  But  the  dress  your  father  liked  best 
was  navy  blue,  what  was  called  a  Princess  dress, 
buttoned  straight  down  with  small  brass  buttons. 
I  had  a  sort  of  reefer  coat  to  wear  with  that,  and  a 
hat  with  a  blue  veil.  And  I  had  a  black  satin  for 
evenings  (no  self-respecting  bride  would  have  been 


44     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

without  a  black  satin)    besides  my  bridal   white 


satin." 


"You  must  have  looked  a  duck  with  those  little 
white  kid  shoes  with  the  big  rosettes  on  the  toes 
and  the  blue  silk  laces.  I  suppose  you  were  married 
in  the  house?" 

"Oh  yes.  Church  weddings  were  practically  un- 
known then.  I  was  married  in  the  drawing-rocxn. 
Do  you  remember  it"?  Rather  a  gloomy  room,  and 
not  often  used.  The  partition  between  the  dining- 
room  and  the  room  next  it  was  taken  down,  and  the 
luncheon  was  laid  on  long  tables.  People  came 
from  Priorsford  the  day  before  and  cooked  and  made 
ready.  It  had  been  a  terrible  storm,  and  the  drifts 
were  piled  up  high,  but  I  don't  think  any  of  the 
invited  guests  stayed  away,  although  many  of  them 
had  long  distances  to  drive.  The  preparations  were 
very  exciting.  I  remember  the  great  rich  cakes  from 
Edinburgh  being  cut  down  with  a  lavish  hand,  and 
big,  round,  thick  cakes  of  shortbread  with  white 
sweeties  on  them,  so  the  guests  must  have  had  tea 
as  well  as  luncheon,  and  been  well  warmed  and  fed. 
Rather  unlike  our  modem  weddings,  with  a  crumb 
of  bridescake  and  a  thimbleful  of  champagne,  fol- 
lowed by  a  cup  of  tea  and  a  sandwich.  Hare  soup, 
and  roasts  of  all  sorts,  and  creams  and  trifles  galore. 
I  was  child  enough  to  enjoy  it  all." 

Ann  stopped  writing  and  sat  with  her  fountain- 
pen  poised  in  her  hand,  looking  into  the  fire. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       45 

"I  can  just  imagine,"  she  said,  "how  jolly  it  must 
have  been.  The  comfortable  old  house  in  the  village 
street,  all  the  rooms  with  blazing  fires,  and  the 
kitchen  with  the  flagged,  uneven  floor,  hot  and  sim- 
mering with  good  things  cooking,  and  the  snow  out- 
side, and  the  horses  stamping  in  the  cold,  frosty  air, 
and  the  guests  coming  in  laughing  and  talking.  And 
Father  so  young  and  tall  and  blue-eyed,  and  you 
such  a  nice  little  white  and  gold  bride,  blue-eyed, 
too  (no  wonder  there  is  such  a  lamentable  lack  of 
variety  in  the  looks  of  your  children ;  I  do  admire  a 
family  where  some  are  dark,  and  some  fair,  and  some 
red-haired — it  isn't  so  dreadfully  monotonous),  and 
the  bridesmaids  in  white  with  scarlet  berries,  and 
your  little  brothers  all  agape  for  good  things.  It 
must  all  have  been  so  young  and  merry.  A  good 
send-off  to  a  very  happy  married  life,  eh,  Mother*?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  looked  at  her  daughter  without 
speaking,  the  tears  slowly  gathering  in  her  eyes. 
Ann  bent  forward  and  laid  her  hand  on  her  mother's. 
"Just  say  to  me  as  Marget  says,  'Oh,  lassie,  baud  yer 
tongue !'  I  know  that  is  what  you  are  feeling  like. 
It  breaks  your  heart  to  look  back.  There  has  been 
so  much  happiness  and  such  great  sorrow;  but  the 
sad  bits  are  as  precious  as  the  happy  bits,  and  they 
all  help  to  make  the  pattern.  On  the  whole  a  gay 
pattern.  Mother." 

"Oh  yes,  yes.  I  have  had  far  beyond  my  deserts. 
For  many  years  life  was  almost  cloudless,  except 


46     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

for  the  clouds  I  made  with  my  own  foolish  fears 
and  forebodings.  Why  did  nobody  shake  me  for 
my  silliness  *?  Fussing  over  trifles,  worrying  about 
the  congregation,  feverishly  trying  to  lay  by  for 
an  evil  day.  I  wonder  now  how  I  could  ever  have 
made  a  trouble  of  anything  when  I  had  your  father 
with  me  and  all  my  children  about  me.  And  I  knew 
I  was  happy,  but  I  daren't  say  it  even  to  myself,  in 
case  I  brought  disaster.  What  pagans  we  are  at 
heart — afraid  of  envious  fates!  And  then  Rosa- 
mund died.  .  .  .  We  thought  we  could  never  be 
happy  again — but  we  were.  It  was  never  quite  the 
same  again;  we  walked  much  more  softly,  for  the 
ground  seemed  brittle  somehow,  and  the  sorrow  of 
the  world  came  closer  to  us,  and  we  went  with  a 
different  understanding  to  the  house  of  mourning — 
but  we  were  happy.  I  think  I  must  often  have  been 
very  trying  to  my  friends  during  those  prosperous 
years.  They  talked  of  'the  Douglas  luck,'  for  every- 
thing the  boys  tried  for  they  seemed  to  get.  And 
the  educating  being  over  we  had  more  money  in 
our  hands,  and  -you  got  about  to  see  the  world,  and 
we  could  all  go  abroad  at  a  time,  and  I  could  spend 
some  money  on  the  house — I  always  made  a  god  of 
my  house.  How  proud  I  was  of  my  drawing-room 
when  we  got  the  green  velvet  carpet  that  was  like 
moss,  and  the  soft  blue  walls  and  hangings,  and  the 
big  Chesterfield  with  the  down  cushions!  And  the 
tea-table  set  out  with  plates  and  green  knives,  while 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       47 

the  people  round  were  still  handing  their  visitors 
a  cup  in  their  hand,  and  cake  and  scones  on  a  cake- 
stand  I  I  was  a  queen  and  no  widow.  .  .  .  Why, 
Marget,  is  it  nine  o'clock  already  *?'* 

Marget  gave  her  demure,  respectful  curtsey,  which 
was  so  oddly  at  variance  with  her  frank  and  fearless 
comments  on  things  in  general,  and  sat  down  on  a 
chair  beside  Mysie. 

"Ay,  Mem,  it's  nine  o'clock.  It's  juist  chappit  on 
the  lobby  clock."  She  directed  a  suspicious  glance 
towards  the  table  where  Ann  sat.  "Is  Miss  Ann 
gettin'  on  wi'  yer  Life?  Dinna  let  her  put  in  ony 
lees  aboot  us.  How  faur  has  she  gotten^  Juist  to 
yer  marriage?  Oh,  that's  a'  richt.  I  wasna  there 
then.  But  I  can  keep  ye  richt  aboot  what  happened 
ony  time  in  the  last  five-and-thirty  years." 


CHAPTER  IV 

NO  honeymoon!" 
Ann's  pen  was  held  aloft  in  amaze,  as  she 
looked  across  at  her  mother  seated  at  the  other 
side  of  the  fire  in  her  very  own  chair  that  had  stood 
by  the  nursery  fireside  in  long  past  days.  Well  did 
Ann  remember  the  comfortable  squat  legs  of  it  from 
the  time  when  she  had  lived  in  that  world  of  chair- 
legs  and  the  underside  of  sofas  which  we  all  inhabit 
at  the  beginning  of  things. 

Ann's  mother  was  knitting  as  usual,  a  stocking 
for  a  long-legged  grandson ;  but  she  knitted  mechan- 
ically, not  looking  at  her  work,  her  eyes  on  the 
dancing  flames,  a  little  reminiscent  smile  turning  up 
the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"No  honeymoon  I"  Ann  again  ejaculated.  "What 
was  Father  thinking  of^     Didn't  you  mind^" 

"Mind^  No.  Where  would  we  go  in  December 
but  to  our  own  little  housed  You  must  remember 
that  I  had  hardly  ever  left  Etterick  except  to  go  to 
school,  and  the  journey  north  seemed  a  wonderful 
adventure  to  me;  and  your  father  was  in  such  a 
hurry  to  show  me  the  little  Manse  and  all  the  new 
furniture  that   the   train,  journey  seemed  all    too 

long.     We  got  to  Inchkeld  very  late,  and  it  was 

48 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      49 

snowing  hard.  We  looked  about  for  the  cab  that  had 
been  ordered  to  meet  us,  but'  your  father  said, 
'There's  only  a  carriage  and  pair;  that  can't  be  for 
us — let's  walk.'  So  off  we  set,  I  in  my  sealskin 
coat  and  prune-coloured  bonnet  I  And  the  sad  thing 
was  that  the  carriage  and  pair  was  meant  for  us. 
It  turned  out  that  the  carriage-hirer  came  from 
Priorsford,  and  when  he  got  the  order  he  said.  It's 
for  Mr.  Mark  and  his  bride;  I'll  send  a  pair.'  And 
the  pair  came,  and  we  walked !" 

Ann  laughed.  "Too  much  humility  doesn't  pay. 
There's  a  parable  there  if  I  had  time  to  think  it  out. 
Well,  and  did  the  house  come  up  to  your  expecta- 
tions?" 

"It  was  one  of  a  row  of  houses,"  said  Mrs.  Doug- 
las. "There  was  a  gate  and  a  strip  of  garden,  and  a 
gravel-path  leading  to  the  front  door.  On  your 
right  as  you  went  in  at  the  door  was  the  dining-room 
— but  before  we  got  to  that  your  father  had  to  show 
me  everything  in  the  little  entrance  hall  and  tell 
me  the  price.  Very  ugly  things  you  would  call  them 
— you  who  like  crumbling  Jacobean  chests  and  gate 
tables;  but  I  was  very  well  pleased  with  the  brand 
new  hall  table  (on  which  stood  a  large  brass  bell), 
the  hat-stand,  and  the  thing  for  umbrellas.  I  really 
liked  them  much  better  than  the  beautiful  old  things 
at  Etterick;  they  were  new  and  they  were  mine. 
The  dining-room  had  a  bow  window  which  held  a 
green  wire  stand  full  of  growing  ferns.     (Isn't  it 


50     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

odd  that  after  forty  years  I  remember  every  detail*?) 
The  room  was  hardly  big  enough  to  hold  the  huge 
mahogany  sideboard  with  the  mirrored  back,  anc 
all  the  other  furniture." 

"I  remember  the  pictures,"  Ann  said,  "at  leasl 
I  expect  they  were  the  same  as  at  Kirkcaple  anc 
Glasgow — big  steel  engravings;  one  of  a  slave 
market  which  I  liked  very  much,  and  another  thai 
the  boys  liked  better,  of  fat  priests  looking  at  the 
provisions  brought  by  the  country  people  for  the 
Monastery — ducks  and  fowls,  and  a  large  salmon 
and  a  slain  deer.  We  made  up  stories  about  those 
pictures." 

"The  drawing-room  was  the  crowning  glory  oi 
the  house,"  Mrs.  Douglas  went  on.  She  was  noi 
listening  to  her  daughter;  she  was  living  over  agair 
that  first  enchanting  peep  at  her  own  house.  "M^ 
father  furnished  it  for  us,  and  everything  he  die 
was  well  done.  It  was  midnight  before  we  hac 
finished  supper,  but  I  couldn't  have  slept  withou' 
seeing  it.  The  wall-paper  was  pure  white  witl 
bunches  of  gilt  flowers;  it  was  your  father's  choice 
and  I  thought  I  had  seldom  seen  anything  so  beau 
tiful.  How  dull  it  must  be  for  women  who  marr] 
men  who  take  no  interest  in  the  house !  I'm  thank 
ful  that  I  had  a  man  who  was  interested  in  every 
thing.  It  made  doing  things  so  much  more  wortl 
while.  He  was  so  innocent  the  way  he  showed  hi; 
belongings    to   people,    taking    their    interest    fo 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      51 

granted,  like  a  child.  I  can  see  him  now  watching 
my  face  as  the  full  glory  of  the  room  burst  on  me. 
It  was  lit  by  a  glittering  glass  gasalier  hung  from 
the  ceiling;  I  had  known  only  lamps  and  candles. 
The  rosewood  suite  was  covered  with  bright  crimson 
rep,  there  were  crimson  rep  curtains  at  the  bow 
window,  a  chiffonier  with  a  marble  top  stood  against 
one  wall,  our  shining  new  piano  against  another,  a 
round  rosewood  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
an  ottoman  covered  with  bead  work  in  the  window. 
Really,  Ann,  I  can  hardly  forgive  you  when  I  think 
that  when  you  grew  up  you  made  me  part  with  the 
chiffonier  and  the  rosewood  table,  and  the  ottoman, 
and  that  comfortable  couch." 

"What  a  vindictive  mother!"  said  Ann.  "But 
why  did  you  do  it^  Surely  my  eighteen-year-old 
yearnings  after  a  high-art  drawing-room  could  have 
been  quelled." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  they  could,  but  I  didn't  want  to 
'daunton'  you,  and  you  didn't  see  how  you  could 
live  unless  you  got  at  least  one  room  in  the  house 
made  what  you  called  artistic.  You  said  our  draw- 
ing-room walls  were  just  a  network,  and  perhaps 
I  had  too  many  things  hanging  from  the  picture-rail 
(it  used  to  be  a  puzzle  to  get  them  all  up  again 
at  spring-cleaning  times),  but  they  had  all  a  reason 
for  being  there — the  plaques  framed  in  plush  that 
Mark  painted,  your  water-colours,  and  all  the 
enlarged  photographs  of  people  I  was  fond  of.  You 


52     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

put  them  all  ruthlessly  away,  and  had  the  walis  done 
with  brown  paper  and  hung  up  a  few  dreary-look- 
ing pictures  in  dark  frames.  And  you  chose  a  dull 
blue  carpet,  and  orange  cushions,  and  all  my  cheer- 
ful red  rep  chairs  were  covered  with  sad-coloured 
stuffs,  and  you  got  green  blinds  and  kept  them  pulled 
down  so  that  the  room  was  almost  quite  dark,  and 
people  who  came  to  call  just  stotted  over  obstacles 
on  their  way  to  shake  hands.  And  you  banished 
photographs ' ' 

Ann's  face  wore  a  guilty  look  as  her  mother  told 
of  her  sins  and  faults  of  youth,  and  she  broke  in : 

"But  own.  Mother,  that  the  phase  didn't  last 
long.  I  know  it  was  dreadful  while  it  lasted.  I  had 
met  some  artists  and  they  had  fussed  me  and  my 
head  was  turned.  I  must  have  been  a  sore  trial 
to  my  family  at  that  time.  Father,  losing  patience 
with  me  one  night,  said,  'Oh,  go  to  bed,  girl,  and 
don't  sit  attitudinising  there!'  You  should  have 
beaten  me  instead  of  giving  in  to  me  when  I  sug- 
gested putting  away  the  things  you  were  fond  of. 
Young  people  are  heartless  because  they  don't  think. 
I  would  know  better  now." 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Douglas  gave  a  long  sigh,  "it's  only 
now  I  miss  my  things.  I  parted  from  them  light- 
heartedly — rather  proud,  I  dare  say,  of  being  so 
modem.  I  didn't  know  that  I  would  live  to  cherish 
every  relic  of  my  first  married  days,  because  I  had 
lost  the  one  who  shared  them.  .  .  .  Not  that  I 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       53 

behaved  well  that  first  year  in  Inchkeld.  Of  course, 
I  was  only  seventeen,  but  I  might  have  had  more 
sense.  I  cried  half  the  time.  What  a  damp  and 
disconsolate  companion  for  any  poor  man  I  No,  I 
had  nothing  to  cry  about!  Au  contraire^  as  the  sea- 
sick Frenchman  said  when  asked  if  he  had  dined 
(to  use  Robbie's  favourite  jest) ;  but  I  had  never 
been  away  from  home  before,  and  I  missed  Agatha, 
and  I  missed  the  boys,  and  I  missed  all  the  stir  of 
a  big  family  and  the  cheery  bustle  that  goes  on 
in  a  country  house.  I  loved  my  little  doll's  house, 
so  new  and  fresh,  but  the  streets,  and  the  houses 
full  of  strangers  oppressed  me,  and  I  was  woefully 
homesick.  Your  grandmother,  my  mother-in-law — 
she  died  before  you  were  born,  and  you  missed 
knowing  one  of  the  kindest  women  that  ever  lived — 
sent  her  cook,  Maggie  Ann,  a  capable  girl  from  the 
Borders,  to  be  my  servant,  and  she  was  as  homesick 
as  I  was.  One  day  we  saw  an  old  tinker  body  who 
visited  Etterick  regularly  on  her  rounds  walking 
down  the  road  with  her  box  of  small  wares  slung  on 
her  back.  The  sight  to  us  was  like  cold  water  to  a 
thirsty  man.  Maggie  Ann  rushed  out  and  brought 
her  in,  and  we  feasted  the  astonished  old  woman  and 
bought  up  nearly  all  her  wares.  The  thought  that 
she  would  be  seeing  Etterick  soon,  that  she  would 
sleep  in  our  barn,  would  hear  the  soft  Lowland 
tongue  and  see  all  my  own  people  made  that  old 
beggar-wife  a  being  to  be  envied  by  me.  .  .  .  Poor 


54     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

Maggie  Ann  was  very  patient  with  her  inefficient 
mistress,  and  was  young  enough  rather  to  enjoy  my 
effort  to  housekeep.  She  said  it  reminded  her  of 
when  she  was  a  bairn  and  played  at  a  wee  house. 
We  tried  all  sorts  of  experiments  with  food,  but 
I  don't  remember  that  anything  turned  out  very 
well.  Fm  afraid  we  wasted  a  good  deal.  It  was 
a  very  long,  cold  winter,  that  winter  in  Inchkeld. 
The  snow  lay  on  the  ground,  and  the  frost  held  late 
into  March,  and  even  my  sealskin  coat  could  not 
keep  out  the  cold.  We  grew  tired  of  skating,  and 
I  took  to  moping  in  the  house " 

"Really,  Mother,"  said  Ann,  "it  sounds  fright- 
fully unlike  you  as  I  have  always  known  you — a 
little  bustling  hurricane  of  a  woman,  waking  up  all 
the  dreaming  ones,  spurring  the  idle  to  work,  a 
reproach  to  the  listless,  an  example  to  all — and  you 
tell  me  you  sat  in  the  house  and  moped  and  cried." 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head.  "I  wasn't  always 
a  bustling  hurricane.  I  think  I  became  that  because 
I  married  such  a  placid  man;  just  as  I  became  a 
Radical  because  he  was  such  a  Tory;  just  as  I  had 
to  become  sternly  practical  because  he  was  such  a 
dreamer.  If  we  had  both  been  alike  we  would  have 
wandered  hand-in-hand  into  the  workhouse.  Not 
that  Mark  spent  money  on  himself — bless  him — but 
nobody  ever  asked  him  for  help  and  was  refused; 
and  he  did  like  to  buy  things  for  me.  I  found  I  just 
had  to  take  control  of  the  money.    Not  at  first,  of 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       5s 

course;  it  came  to  it  by  degrees.  And  your  father 
was  only  too  glad;  money  was  never  anything  but  a 
nuisance  to  him.  I  don't  think  Fm  inordinately 
fond  of  money  either,  but  I  had  to  hain  so  that  for 
years  it  had  an  undue  prominence  in  my  mind. 
Well,  I  sighed  for  the  South  Country,  and  one  day, 
when  I  was  miserably  moping  over  the  fire,  your 
father  said  to  me :  'Come  on,  Nell,  Fm  going  to  visit 
a  sick  girl  about  your  own  age.  She's  always  asking 
me  questions  about  you,  and  I  said  you  would  go 
and  see  her.' 

"I  didn't  want  to  go,  for  I  was  shy  of  sick  people 
— the  being  ill  in  bed  seemed  to  put  them  such  a 
distance  away — but  I  put  on  my  best  clothes  to 
make  a  good  impression,  and  went.  .  .  .  We  were 
taken  into  a  clean,  bright  room,  with  a  dressing- 
table  dressed  crisply  in  white  muslin  over  pink.  A 
girl  was  lying  high  up  on  the  pillows,  and  I  thought 
at  first  she  couldn't  be  ill,  she  had  such  shining  blue 
eyes  and  rose-flushed  cheeks;  her  yellow  hair  hung 
in  two  plaits  over  her  shoulders.  Then  I  saw  that 
her  hands  were  almost  transparent,  and  that  her 
breath  came  in  quick  gasps  between  her  red,  parted 
lips,  and  I  knew  that  this  pretty  child  was  dying 
quickly  of  consumption.  I  couldn't  speak  as  I  took 
her  hand,  but  I  tried  hard  to  keep  the  tears  from  my 
eyes  as  she  looked  at  me — two  girls  about  an  age, 
the  one  beginning  life  at  its  fullest,  the  other  about 
to  leave  the  world  and  youth  behind.    I  stood  there 


56     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

in  my  wedding  braws,  hating  myself  almost  for  my 
health  and  happiness.  Your  father  talked  to  her 
until  I  got  hold  of  myself,  and  then  she  seemed  to 
like  to  hear  me  tell  about  the  little  house  and  my 
attempts  to  cook.  As  we  were  leaving  she  held  your 
father's  hand,  and  said,  in  her  weak,  husky  voice, 
*Mr.  Douglas,  tell  the  folk  on  Sabbath  that  Christ  is 
a  Rock.  .  .  .'  I  think  I  realised  then,  for  the  first 
time,  what  religion  meant.  A  sentence  in  that  book 
we  were  reading,  Green  Apple  Harvest^  reminded 
me  of  that  girl.  .  .  .  You  know  when  Robert  is 
dying  and  his  brother  Clem  says  to  him : 

"  'Oh,  Bob,  it  seems  unaccountable  hard  as  you 
should  die  in  the  middle  of  May'.' 

"And  Robert  replies:  *  .  .  .  I've  a  feeling  as  if  I 
go  to  the  Lord  God  I'll  only  be  going  into  the  middle 
of  all  that's  alive.  ...  If  I'm  with  Him  I  can't 
never  lose  the  month  of  May.  .  .  .' 

"I  went  home  crying  bitterly  for  the  girl  who 
was  dying  in  the  May  morning  of  her  days.  I  don't 
think  I  moped  any  more." 


CHAPTER  V 

1NCHKELD  was  a  most  pleasant  place  in  which 
to  have  one's  home — a  city  set  among  hills  and 
watered  by  a  broad  river;  and  surely  no  young  and 
witless  couple  ever  had  a  kinder  and  more  indulgent 
congregation  than  we  had. 

"The  first  Sunday  I  appeared  in  church  I  was 
almost  dead  with  fright.  I  had  to  walk  through  the 
church  to  reach  the  Manse  seat,  and  every  eye 
seemed  to  be  boring  into  me  like  a  gimlet.  As  if 
that  weren't  bad  enough,  I  was  accosted  on  my  way 
out  by  a  tall,  bland  elder,  who  said  he  supposed  I 
would  want  to  teach  a  class  in  the  Sabbath  school. 
As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  supposed  quite  wrong,  for 
it  had  never  entejed  into  my  head  that  such  an 
awful  duty  would  be  required  of  me.  Think — ^until 
a  short  time  before  I  myself  had  been  a  scholar  (and 
a  restless,  impertinent  one  at  that  I),  and  the  very 
thought  of  trying  to  control  a  class  made  my  brain 
reel.  But  I  was  as  clay  in  the  hands  of  this  suave 
Highland  potter,  who  went  on  to  tell  me  that  the 
last  minister's  wife  had  carried  on  a  most  successful 
class  for  older  girls.  'She,  of  course,'  he  added,  'was 
a  niece  of  the  late  Lord  Clarke,'  as  if  that  fact 
explained  any  amount  of  talent  for  teaching  the 

57 


58     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

young.  He  led  me  away — I  was  now  in  a  state  of 
passive  despair — and  introduced  me  to  a  class  as 
their  new  teacher.  There  were  seven  of  them,  girls 
about  fifteen — always,  I  think,  the  worst  and  a  most 
impudent  age  (you  were  a  brat  at  fifteen,  Ann  I), 
and  they  fixed  me  with  seven  pairs  of  eyes,  round 
brown  eyes,  rather  like  brandy-balls — I  suppose  they 
couldn't  all  have  had  brown  eyes,  but  the  general 
effect  was  of  brandy-balls — silently  taking  me  in. 
I  heard  the  elder  telling  them  how  honoured  they 
were  to  have  the  minister's  wife  as  teacher;  then  I 
was  left  with  them.  Later  on,  when  I  got  to  know 
the  girls,  I  sometimes  laughed  at  the  terror  of  the 
first  Sunday.  They  were  the  nicest  girls,  really, 
gentle  and  kind;  but  that  day  they  seemed  to  me 
inhuman  little  owls.  They  told  me  the  lesson — one 
of  the  parables — but  my  mind  was  a  blank,  and  I 
could  think  of  no  comment  to  make  over  it.  I 
stumbled  and  stuttered,  every  moment  getting  more 
hot  and  ashamed,  and  finally  went  home,  feeling,  in 
spite  of  my  sealskin  coat  and  prune  bonnet,  the  most 
miserably  inadequate  minister's  wife  that  had  ever 
tried  to  reign  in  a  manse,  scourged  as  with  whips  by 
the  thought  of  the  late  Lord  Clarke's  niece.  What  a 
comfort  your  father  always  was !  He  made  it  seem 
all  right  in  a  twinkling,  assured  me  that  I  needn't 
teach  a  class  unless  I  liked,  but  vowed  that  if  I  did 
no  one  could  teach  it  half  so  well;  and  as  for  the 
late  Lord  Clarke's  niece,  he  had  never  seen  her,  but 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      59 

he  was  sure  she  was  a  long-faced  woman,  with  no 
sense  of  humour." 

"I  know,"  said  Ann.  "Father  was  always  singu- 
larly comforting.  When  we  hurt  ourselves,  you  and 
Marget  invariably  took  the  gloomiest  view,  looked 
up  medical  books  and  prophesied  dire  results.  Once 
I  got  my  thumb  badly  crushed  and  the  nail  torn  off 
while  swinging  on  a  see-saw.  Marget  at  once  said 
'lock-jaw!'  I  hadn't  a  notion  what  that  was,  but  it 
had  an  eerily  fatal  sound,  and  I  crept  away  to 
Father's  study  to  try  and  lose  my  fears  in  a  book. 
Presently  Father  came  in,  and  I  rolled  out  of  the 
arm-chair  I  had  cuddled  into  and  ran  to  show  him 
my  bandaged  hand. 

"  'Oh,  Father  I'  I  cried,  'will  I  take  lock-jaw  and 
will  I  die^'  I  can  see  him  now,  all  fresh  from  the 
cold  air,  laughing  at  me,  yet  sorry  for  me,  lifting  me 
up  in  his  strong  arms,  saying,  'Poor  wifie,  were  they 
frightening  you ^  Lock-jaw?  No.  Let's  look  at  it. 
Yes,  I  see  the  nail's  off.  Had  we  better  get  a  cellu- 
loid one  till  the  new  one  grows*?  Try  and  keep  a 
cloth  on  it,  like  a  good  lassie,  and  it  will  soon  be 
well.'  And  then  peace  slid  into  my  soul,  and  I  sat 
on  his  knee  and  he  told  me  a  story.  I  can  quite  see 
what  a  wonderful  minister  my  father  was.  It  was 
that  air  of  surety,  of  steadfastness,  that  gave  people 
such  a  lift,  and  that  firm,  comforting  hand  that 
touched  things  so  gently.    Robbie  had  the  same ;  so 


6o     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

had  the  little  lad.  .  .  .  But  to  go  back  to  Inchkeld 
and  the  congregation " 

"Yes.  It  was  a  very  flourishing  congregation. 
Every  Sunday  it  crammed  the  little  church,  and 
sometimes  forms  had  to  be  brought  in.  The  good- 
ness of  the  people  was  almost  destroying.  They 
wanted  to  share  everything  they  had  with  us.  Con- 
stantly such  things  as  a  hare,  or  pheasants,  or  a 
'black  bun,'  or  several  cakes  of  shortbread  would 
arrive — and  we  had  so  few  to  eat  them.  Inchkeld 
was  a  sociable  place,  and  I  had  lots  of  callers  and 
no  lack  of  opportunities  for  wearing  my  wedding 
finery.  Those  weren't  the  days  of  afternoon  tea. 
Cake  and  wine  were  served  in  the  drawing-room  with 
the  white  and  gilt  wall-paper  and  the  red  rep  furni- 
ture— neat  squares  of  wedding-cake  in  the  brand 
new  silver  cake-basket." 

"Oooh  I"  groaned  Ann.  "Can't  I  see  those  squares 
of  wedding-cake  I  I  hope  no  hungry  children  ever 
came  to  see  you.  Do  you  remember  taking  me  as  a 
small  child  to  call  on  some  newly  married  people 
in  Burntisland? — I  think  I  was  taken  because  I  was 
a  firebrand  at  home — and  tea  came  in  on  a  silver 
tray,  all  prinked  out  with  ruffly  d'oyleys — scones 
about  the  size  of  half-crowns  and  a  frightfully  newly 
married  shining  cake-basket,  holding  inches  of  wed- 
ding-cake. I  was  passionately  hungry,  and  could 
have  eaten  the  whole  show  and  never  known  it; 
but  I  sat  on  a  stool  and  nibbled  a  scone,  and  tried 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       61 

not  to  make  any  crumbs,  and  then  I  was  handed  the 
cake-basket.  We  had  been  taught  always  to  take 
the  bit  nearest  us,  and  the  bit  nearest  me — alas  I — 
was  the  smallest  bit  in  the  basket,  with  only  the 
minutest  fragment  of  almond  icing  and  sugar 
attached.  I  would  fain  have  snatched  two  bits,  but 
my  upbringing  was  too  strong  for  me,  and  I  took 
the  fragment.  It  was  far  the  most  delicious  thing 
I  had  ever  tasted.  Surely,  I  thought,  this  must  be 
what  angels  eat,  and  for  the  first  time  in  my  faulty 
life  I  wished  to  be  an  angel.  It  was  over  in  a  second, 
though  I  ate  it  crumb  by  crumb  and  kept  the  sugar 
for  the  last;  and  then  I  sat  and  gazed  hungrily  for 
another  bit ;  but  no  one  noticed  me,  no  one  brought 
the  shining  cake-basket  again  within  my  reach.  I 
don't  think  that  newly  married  wife  could  ever  have 
come  to  any  good — a  woman  who  hadn't  the  sense 
to  feed  a  hungry  child!  You  think  I  spoil  our 
children,  but  it's  because  I  remember  the  awfulness 
of  having  a  very  little  of  a  good  thing." 

"I  remember  that  visit  to  Burntisland,"  Mrs. 
Douglas  said.  "I  had  to  take  you  into  a  shop  on 
the  way  home  and  buy  you  biscuits.  Your  father 
wanted  some,  too — a  handed-round  tea  was  no  use 
to  him ;  he  liked  a  breakfast-cup  filled  several  times. 
I  don't  think  I  was  ever  guilty  of  starving  children 
of  wedding-cake.  I  got  surfeited  with  it  myself, 
and  a  big  family  from  across  the  way  used  to  come 
in  to  help  us  away  with  all  that  was  left  over  from 


62     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

our  parties.  We  were  glad  to  get  things  eaten  up 
in  those  days.  Both  my  own  mother  and  your 
father's  mother  constantly  sent  us  boxes  of  eatables 
as  if  we  had  been  on  a  desert  island  instead  of  in  a 
city  of  shops — great  mutton-hams,  and  haggis,  and 
noble  Selkirk  bannocks;  I  was  afraid  of  them  com- 
ing to  our  little  household.  How  glad  I  would  have 
been  to  see  them  in  later  years,  when  I  had  growing 
children  to  feed!  But  the  kind  hands  that  packed 
them  were  still.  .  .  .  We  could  entertain  only  in  a 
very  small  way  in  our  very  small  house,  but  we 
were  asked  to  quite  a  lot  of  dinner-parties.  They 
were  evenings  of  dread  to  me.  I  was  so  shockingly 
bad  at  making  conversation.  I  blushed  fiercely  when 
anyone  spoke  to  me,  and  must  have  presented  an 
appearance  of  such  callowness  that  I  provoked  pity 
in  the  hearts  of  kindly  people.  One  dear  old  lady 
said  to  me,  'My  dear,  have  you  cut  your  wisdom  teeth 
yet?'  ...  In  September  Mark  was  born.  It  was 
prayer-meeting  night,  and  Maggie  Ann  carelessly 
let  the  cat  eat  my  canary.  They  didn't  tell  me  about 
it  until  I  asked  why  I  wasn't  hearing  him  singing. 
Mark  was  a  tiny,  delicate  baby,  but  he  was  perfect 
in  our  eyes.  We  looked  with  distaste  at  large  fat 
children,  who  made  poor  little  Mark  look  so  puny 
and  fragile,  and  told  each  other  that  they  were 
'coarse,'  and  that  we  were  glad  our  baby  wasn't  like 
that.  When  I  was  able  to  travel  we  set  off  with  our 
precious  new  possession  to  Etterick.     Agatha  had 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      63 

been  with  us  most  of  the  summer,  but  my  mother 
didn't  come;  she  liked  to  stay  in  her  own  house  and 
welcome  us  there." 

"A  most  detached  woman,  my  grandmother,"  said 
Ann. 

"You  are  rather  like  her,  Ann,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas. 

"Yes,  I  have  the  same  aversion  to  staying  in 
other  people's  houses,  and  I  share  her  dislike  to  the 
casual  kissing  that  so  many  people  indulge  in — 
people  who  are  mere  acquaintances.  You  should 
only  kiss  really  great  friends  at  really  serious  times, 
and  then  it  means  something." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed.  "Nobody  ever  took  a 
liberty  with  your  grandmother.  My  father  was 
utterly  different,  the  most  approachable  of  men. 
People  were  always  asking  favours  from  him;  he 
liked  them  to.  He  didn't  care  how  much  he  went 
out  of  his  way  to  help  anyone,  and  his  hand  was 
never  out  of  his  pocket." 

"You  must  be  exactly  like  grandfather.  I  think 
you  are  one  of  the  very  few  people  left  living  in  the 
world  who  do  take  trouble  about  their  fellow- 
mortals.    The  rest  of  us  are  too  selfish  to  bother," 

"I  like  to  be  kind,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "but  I 
don't  take  any  credit  for  being  kind.  It's  just  my 
nature  to  want  to  give.  The  people  who  hate  to 
give  and  yet  make  themselves  do  it  are  the  ones  who 
ought  to  be  commended.  It  has  always  been  my 
great  desire  to  add  a  little  to  the  happiness  of  the 


64     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

world,  and  I  would  never  forgive  myself  if  I  thought 
I  had  added  by  one  jot  or  tittle  to  the  pain." 

"I  am  very  sure  you  haven't  done  that,"  Ann 
assured  her.  "You  are  the  very  kindest  of  funny 
little  bodies,  and  when  I  call  you  'Ella  Wheeler 
Wilcox'  I  don't  really  mean  it.  But  you  must  admit 
that  it  is  often  very  vicarious  kindness,  and  the 
burden  of  it  falls  on  your  family.  Oh,  the  deplor- 
able people  who  have  come  to  us  'for  a  stop'  because 
you  thought  they  were  lonely  and  neglected!  Of 
course,  they  were,  but  it  was  because  it  almost  killed 
people  to  entertain  them ;  there's  a  reason  for  every- 
thing in  this  world.  But  what  a  shame  to  laugh  at 
your  efforts !    Never  mind.    There  are  those 

*Who,  passing  through  Baca's  vale. 
Therein  do  dig  up  wells/ 

and  you  are  one  of  them.  But  to  go  on  with  your 
Life.  Didn't  you  leave  Inchkeld  quite  soon  after 
Mark  was  born?  I  know  Robbie  and  Jim  and,  I 
thought  it  very  hard  lines  that  he  should  have  been 
born  in  a  lovely  old  historic  city,  while  the  rest  of 
us  had  to  see  the  light  first  amid  coalpits  and  lino- 
leum factories.  Mark  never  let  us  forget  it,  either." 
"Mark  was  two  months  old  when  we  left  Inch- 
keld. When  the  Kirkcaple  congregation  called  your 
father  he  felt  he  ought  to  go.  Oh  I  but  we  were  a 
thoughtless  couple.  It  never  gave  me  a  thought 
to  leave  the  people  who  had  been  so  good  to  us.  I 
just  took  everybody's  kindness  as  a  matter  of  course. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       65 

I  was  too  young  to  realise  how  rare  such  kindness  is, 
and  their  interest  in  the  baby,  and  their  desire  to 
have  us  stay  in  Inchkeld  seemed  to  me  no  more  than 
natural.  I  was  amused  and  pleased  at  the  thought 
of  going  to  a  new  place  and  a  new  house.  You  can 
hardly  get  changes  enough  when  you  are  eighteen. 
In  middle  life  one's  most  constant  prayer  is  that 
God  will  let  things  remain  as  they  are.  What  was 
that  you  were  reading  me  the  other  night?  I  think 
it  was  from  Charles  Lamb." 

Ann  leant  back  in  her  chair  and  pulled  a  little 
green  book  from  a  bookshelf.  "This,  I  think  it 
was,"  she  said,  and  read: 

"  1  am  content  to  stand  still  at  the  age  to  which 
I  am  arrived;  I,  and  my  friends,  to  be  no  younger, 
no  richer,  no  handsomer.  I  do  not  want  to  be 
wearied  by  age,  or  drop  like  mellow  fruit,  as  they 
say,  into  the  grave.  .  .  .'  " 

"Poor  Charles  Lamb  I"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  shak- 
ing her  head.  "There  are  times  when  one  would  like 
to  stand  still,  where  we  seem  to  reach  a  pleasant, 
rich  plain  and  are  at  our  ease,  and  friends  are  many, 
and  life  is  full  of  zest.  ...  I  don't  know  whether  it 
was  wise  to  leave  Inchkeld.  Your  grandfather 
Douglas  always  regretted  it.  When  he  visited  us 
at  Kirkcaple  one  remark  he  always  made  was:  'A 
great  pity  Mark  ever  left  Inchkeld.'  We  used  to 
wait  for  it  and  the  funny  way  he  had  of  clearing  his 
throat  after  every  sentence." 


CHAPTER  VI 

NOVEMBER  is  a  poor  time  to  go  to  a  new 
place,  and  Kirkcaple  certainly  looked  a  most 
unattractive  part  of  the  world  when  we  arrived  on  a 
cold,  wet  afternoon.  'The  queer-like  smell'  from 
the  linoleum  factories,  the  sea  drearily  grey  and 
strange  to  my  inland  eyes,  the  drive  through  narrow 
streets  and  up  the  steep  Path,  past  great  factories 
and  mean  houses,  until  we  reached  the  road,  knee- 
deep  in  mud,  where  the  Manse  stood,  combined  to 
depress  me  to  the  earth.  It  might  have  been  infi- 
nitely worse.  I  saw  that  in  the  light  of  the  next 
morning.  There  was  a  field  before  the  Manse,  and 
though  there  was  a  factory  and  a  rope-work  and  a 
bleach-field  and  a  coal-pit  all  in  close  proximity  to 
it,  there  was  also  the  Den,  where  hyacinths  grew  in 
spring,  and  where  you  could  dig  fern  roots  for  your 
garden.  The  Manse  itself  stood  in  a  large  garden, 
and  in  time  we  forgot  to  notice  the  factories.  The 
people  were  very  unlike  the  courteous  Inchkeld 
people — miners  and  factory  workers,  who  gave  one 
as  they  passed  a  Jack's-as-good-as-his-master  sort  of 
nod.  We  grew  to  understand  them  and  to  value 
their  staunch  friendship,  but  at  first  they  were  as 
fretnt  as  the  landscape. 

66 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      67 

"When  the  cab  lurched  through  the  ruts  to  the 
Manse  gate  and  I  got  out  and  saw  my  new  home  I 
quailed.  From  the  front  it  was  a  gloomy-looking 
house — one  window  on  each  side  of  the  front  door, 
and  three  windows  above,  and  the  kitchen  premises 
on  one  side.  There  was  a  wide  gravelled  space  in 
front,  with  a  small  shrubbery  to  shelter  us  from  the 
road.  It  was  a  sombre  and  threatening  place  to 
enter  on  a  dark  night,  and  when  alone  I  always  made 
a  mad  rush  from  the  gate  to  the  front  door.  One 
night  when  I  reached  my  haven  I  found  a  tall 
man  standing  against  it.  I  had  hardly  strength  to 
gasp,  *Who  are  you  T  and  the  man  replied,  'Weelum 
Dodds.  I  cam'  to  see  the  minister  aboot  gettin'  the 
bairn  bapteezed,  but  the  lassie  wadna  open  the  door.' 
I  had  told  the  servants,  who  were  young  girls,  to 
keep  the  chain  on  the  door  at  night,  and  the  poor 
patient  soul  had  just  propped  himself  up  against 
the  door  and  awaited  developments.  .  .  .  The  back 
of  the  house,  looking  to  the  garden,  was  delightful. 
You  don't  remember  the  garden *?" 

''Don't  n"  said  Ann.  "I  was  only  about  nine 
when  we  left  Kirkcaple,  but  I  remember  every  detail 
of  it.  Just  outside  the  nursery  window  there  was 
a  bush  of  flowering  currant.  Do  you  remember 
that*?  And  jasmine,  and  all  sorts  of  creepers  grew 
up  the  house.  There  was  a  big  square  lawn  before 
the  window,  rather  sloping,  with  two  long  flower- 
beds at  the  top  and  herbaceous  borders  round  the 


68     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

high  walls.  Our  own  especial  gardens  were  at  the  top 
of  the  kitchen  garden.  Mark  had  a  Rose  of  Sharon 
tree  in  his  garden  about  which  he  boasted ;  it  seemed 
to  set  him  a  little  apart.  I  had  a  white  lilac  tree 
in  mine;  Robbie,  severely  practical,  grew  nothing 
but  vegetables,  while  Jim,  when  asked  what  his 
contained,  said  simply  and  truthfully,  'Wurrums.' 
Rosamond  was  a  tiny  baby  when  we  left  Kirkcaple, 
and  the  little  lad  knew  only  Glasgow.  It  was  surely 
a  very  large  garden,  Mother*?  The  gooseberry 
bushes  alone  seemed  to  me  to  extend  for  miles,  and 
in  a  far-away  comer  there  was  the  pigsty.  Why  was 
it  called  'the  pigsty"?  In  our  day  there  was  never 
anything  in  it  but  two  much-loved  Russian  rabbits 
with  pink  eyes.  Fluffy  and  Pluffy.  I  have  a  small 
red  text-book  in  which,  on  a  certain  date,  is  printed 
in  large  round  hand : 

This  day  Fluffy  died. 
"      Pluffy     "     ' 

A  ferret  got  m  and  sucked  their  blood.  What  a 
day  of  horror  that  was  I  The  roof  of  the  pigsty  sloped 
up  to  the  top  of  the  wall,  and  we  liked  to  sit  on 
the  wall  and  say  rude  things  to  the  children  on  the 
road,  they  retorting  with  stones  and  clods  of  earth. 
We  were  all  bonnie  fighters.  You  had  no  notion, 
you  and  Father,  when  we  came  down  to  tea  with 
well-brushed  hair  and  flannel-polished  faces,  of  the 
grim  battles  we  had  just  emerged  from.    The  enemy 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      69 

was  even  then  at  the  gate.  We,  with  ears  to  hear, 
knew  what  sundry  dull  thuds  against  the  front  door 
meant.  Marget,  wrathful  but  loyal,  wiped  away  the 
dirt  and  said  nothing  to  you — lots  to  us,  though! 
.  .  .  But  Tm  getting  years  ahead.  You  were  just 
arriving  with  baby  Mark  to  an  empty,  echoing 
Manse,  through  ways  heavy  with  November  mud. 
Sorry  I  interrupted." 

"As  to  that,"  said  her  mother,  "I  was  really  just 
talking  to  myself.  It  is  good  of  you  to  listen  to 
my  maunderings  about  the  past." 

"Not  at  all,"  Ann  said  solemnly;  and  then,  "You 
daft  wee  mother,  now  that  courtesies  have  been 
exchanged  will  you  go  on  with  that  Life  of  yours? 
It  will  take  us  years  at  this  rate.  What  happened 
when  you  tottered  into  the  Manse?  Did  you  regret 
the  little  sunny,  bow-windowed  Manse  in  Inch- 
keld?" 

"Regret!  I  ached  for  it.  I  couldn't  picture  us 
being  happy  in  this  muddy  mining  place;  I  couldn't 
see  this  bare  barracks  ever  getting  homelike.  But 
it  was  a  roomy  house.  The  dining-room  was  to  the 
right  of  the  front  door,  the  study  to  the  left,  and 
the  nursery  was  on  the  ground  floor,  too.  They 
were  all  big  square  rooms :  the  dining-room  was  cosy 
in  the  evening  but  rather  dark  in  the  day  time;  the 
study  was  a  very  cheerful  room,  with  books  all  round 
the  walls,  and  a  bright  red  carpet,  and  green  leather 
furniture." 


70     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"And  a  little  square  clock,"  Ann  added,  "with 
an  honest  sort  of  face,  and  a  picture  of  John  Knox, 
long  white  beard  and  all,  above  the  mantelpiece, 
and  the  carpet  had  a  design  on  it  of  large  squares; 
I  know,  for  I  used  to  play  a  game  on  it,  jumping 
from  one  to  another.  Some  deceased  elder  had  left 
to  the  Manse  and  to  each  succeeding  minister  a  tall 
glass-doored  bookcase  containing,  among  other 
books,  a  set  of  Shakespeare's  plays  illustrated.  It 
was  funny  to  see  how  the  artist  had  made  even  Fal- 
staff  and  Ariel  quite  early  Victorian — and  as  for 
merry  Beatrice  I  think  she  wore  a  bustle !  Not  that 
it  worried  us;  we  were  delighted  with  his  efforts 
.  .  .  and  in  that  glass-doored  bookcase  there  stayed 
also  a  very  little  book  dressed  in  fairy  green,  with 
gilt  lettering  on  its  cover.  I  have  tried  for  years 
to  find  another  copy,  but  I  have  nothing  to  go  on 
except  that  it  was  a  very  tiny  book  and  that  it  con- 
tained fairy  tales,  translations  from  the  German  I 
think,  for  it  talked  in  one  of  a  king  lying  under  the 
green  lindens!  I  thought  linden  the  most  lovely 
word  I  had  ever  heard !  it  seemed  to  set  all  the  horns 
of  Elfland  blowing  for  me.  One  of  the  stories  must 
have  been  Lohengrin^  there  was  a  swan  in  it  and  'a 
frail  scallop.'  How  I  wept  when  it  appeared  for 
the  second  time  and  took  the  knight  away  for  ever ! 
I  loved  Germany  then  because  it  was  the  home  of 
green  lindens  and  swans  with  scallops,  and  houses 
with  pointed  roofs  and  wide  chimneys  where  storks 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       71 

hested.  Even  in  the  war  I  couldn't  hate  it  as  much 
as  I  ought  to  have  done,  because  of  that  little  green 
book.  .  .  .  But  we're  straying  again,  at  least  I 
am.  .  .  .  You  got  to  like  the  house,  didn't  you*?" 

"Oh  dear,  yes.  It  was  terribly  gaunt  at  first,  but 
before  we  left  it  I  thought  it  was  pretty  nearly 
perfect.  When  we  got  fresh  paper  and  paint,  and 
the  wide  upper  landing  and  staircase  carpeted  with 
crimson,  and  curtains  shading  the  high  staircase  win- 
dow, everyone  said  how  pretty  it  was.  The  draw- 
ing-room was  always  a  pleasant  room,  with  two 
sunny  windows,  and  all  my  treasures  (you  would 
call  them  atrocities)  in  the  way  of  gilt  and  alabaster 
clocks  with  glass  shades,  and  marble-topped  chif- 
fonier, and  red  rep  furniture.  But  the  big  night 
nursery  was  the  nicest  room  of  all,  with  its  row  of 
little  beds,  each  with  a  gay  counterpane !  There  was 
a  small  room  opening  from  it  where  your  clothes 
stayed,  with  a  bath  and  a  wash-hand  basin — a  very 
handy  place." 

"Yes,"  said  Ann;  "and  in  one  comer  stood  a 
very  tall  basket  for  soiled  clothes.  I  remember 
Robbie,  after  hearing  of  someone's  marriage,  coming 
to  you  and  saying  so  earnestly,  'I'll  stay  with  you 
always.  Mums,  and  if  anyone  comes  to  marry  me 
I'll  hide  in  the  dirty-clothes  basket.'  " 

Robbie's  mother  looked  into  the  dancing  flames. 
"That  was  always  his  promise,"  she  said  softly, 
"I'll  stay  with  you  always.  •  .  .  It  wouldn't  have 


72     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

been  so  bad  beginning  in  a  new  place,  with  a  new 
baby  (and  me  so  utterly  new  myself!)  if  Mark 
hadn't  been  so  fragile.  I  daresay  he  suffered  from 
my  inexperience,  I  almost  smothered  him  with 
wraps,  and  hardly  dared  let  him  out  of  the  warm 
nursery,  but  he  must  have  been  naturally  delicate 
as  well.  He  got  bronchitis  on  the  smallest  provoca- 
tion, and  my  heart  was  perpetually  in  my  mouth 
with  the. frights  I  got.  I  spent  hours  listening  to 
his  breathing  and  touching  him  to  see  if  he  felt  hot, 
and  I  kept  your  father  racing  for  the  doctor  until 
both  he  and  the  doctor  struck.  I  was  so  wrapped  up 
in  my  baby  that  I  simply  never  turned  my  head  to 
look  at  the  congregation;  but  they  understood  and 
were  patient.  I  really  was  very  absurd.  Some 
people  gave  a  dinner-party  for  us,  and  your  father 
said  I  simply  must  go.  On  the  night  of  the  party 
I  was  certain  Mark  was  taking  croup,  and  I  could 
hardly  be  dragged  from  him  to  dress.  I  was  deter- 
mined that  anyway  I  must  be  home  in  good  time, 
and  I  ordered  the  cab  to  come  back  for  us  at  a  quarter 
to  nine!  We  had  hardly  finished  dinner  when  it 
was  announced,  but  I  rose  at  once  to  go.  The 
hostess,  astonished  but  kind,  said  on  hearing  my 
excuses,  'Ah,  well,  experience  teaches.'  Tinish  your 
proverb,  Mrs.  Smeaton,'  my  dinner  neighbour  (a 
clergyman  from  a  neighbouring  parish)  broke  in, 
'Experience  teaches  fools.'  Now  I  realise  that  the 
man  was  embittered — and  little  wonder! — by  hav- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       73 

ing  tried  to  make  conversation  to  me  for  a  dreary 
hour,  but  at  the  moment  I  hated  him.  When  we 
left  Kirkcaple  he  and  his  wife  were  our  greatest 
friends.  .  .  .  There  were  four  houses  in  our  road. 
The  large  one  nearest  the  Den  belonged  to  one  of 
the  linoleum  people,  we  came  next,  and  then  there 
was  a  low,  bungalow  sort  of  house  where  the  Mes- 
tons  lived  with  their  three  little  girls,  and  at  the  end 
of  the  road  lived  one  of  the  elders  in  the  church — 
Goskirk  was  the  name — with  his  wife  and  eight 
sons.  How  they  all  got  into  that  small  house  I 
know  not,  but  it  was  always  comfortable,  and  there 
was  always  a  welcome,  and  Mrs.  Goskirk  was  the 
busiest,  happiest  little  woman  in  Kirkcaple,  and  a 
great  stand-by  to  me.  'How's  baby  to-day?'  she 
would  come  in  saying,  every  word  tilted  up  at  the 
end  as  is  the  accent  of  Fife.  As  rich  in  experience 
as  I  was  poor,  she  could  soothe  my  fears  and  laugh 
at  my  forebodings.  She  prescribed  simple,  homely 
remedies  and  told  me  not  to  fuss.  She  gave  me  a 
new  interest  in  life,  and  kept  me  happily  engaged  by 
teaching  me  how  to  make  clothes  for  Mark.  Her 
little  boys  trotted  in  and  out,  coming  to  show  me  all 
their  treasures,  and  going  away  pleased  with  a 
sweetie  or  a  sugar  biscuit  I  They  did  much  to  make 
me  feel  at  home.  .  .  .  When  I  went  back  to  Et- 
terick  in  summer  I  thought  Mark  was  a  lovely  baby, 
and  that  he  had  a  wonderful  mother!  He  wore  a 
pelisse  I  had  made  him  (under  Mrs.  Goskirk's  eye), 


74     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

cream  cashmere,  with  a  wide  band  of  lavender  vel- 
vet, and  a  soft,  white  felt  hat  with  a  lavender  feath- 
er round  it.  I  paid  fifteen  shillings  for  the  feather 
and  thought  it  a  great  price.  .  .  .  For  three  years 
we  had  only  Mark,  then  you  and  Robbie  quite  close 
together.  But  Mark  was  never  put  in  the  'stirk's 
stair ;  for  you  were  a  healthy,  placid  baby,  and  my 
dear  Robbie  was  just  like  you.  I  remember  his  com- 
ing so  well.  It  was  a  February  morning,  and  Mrs. 
Perm,  the  nurse,  said:  'Another  deil  o'  a  laddie.' 
She  much  preferred  girls.  Robbie  was  such  a  caller 
baby,  so  fat  and  good-natured  and  thriving." 

"My  very  first  recollection  of  Robbie,"  Aim  said, 
"is  in  the  garden.  I  think  it  must  have  been  an 
April  morning,  for  I  remember  daffodils,  and  the 
sun  was  shining,  and  the  wind  tumbling  us  about, 
and  Mark  said  to  me  that  he  thought  Ellie  Robbie 
meant  to  run  away  with  Robbie,  and  that  it  be- 
hoved us  to  save  him.  As  he  told  me  his  terrible 
suspicions  Robbie  came  down  the  walk  pulling  be- 
hind him  a  large  rake — a  little  boy  with  an  almost 
white  head,  very  blue  eyes,  and  very  chubby,  very 
rosy  cheeks.  I  remember  we  separated  him  from  his 
rake  and  Mark  dragged  us  both  into  the  gooseberry 
bushes,  where  we  lay  hid  until  Ellie  Robbie  (the 
suspect)  came  to  look  for  us,  bringing  us  a  treat  in 
the  shape  of  a  slice  each  of  brown  scone  spread  with 
marmalade,  and  two  acid  drops.  That  closed  the 
incident." 


CHAPTER  VII 

ON  these  winter  evenings  in  the  Green  Glen, 
when  the  wind  and  the  rain  beat  upon  the 
house,  and  Ann  by  the  fireside  wrote  down  her 
mother's  life,  Marget  made  many  errands  into  the 
drawing-room  to  offer  advice. 

"I  think" — ^said  Ann  one  evening — "I  think  I 
must  have  been  horribly  neglected  as  a  baby. 
Everyone  was  so  taken  up  with  Mark  they  hadn't 
time  to  look  at  me." 

Marget  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
with  her  hands  folded  on  her  black  satin  apron ;  she 
would  have  scorned  to  wear  a  white  apron  after 
working  hours.  She  had  come  in  with  a  list  of 
groceries  to  be  ordered  by  post,  and  stood  looking 
suspiciously  at  Ann  and  her  writing. 

"Ye  were  never  negleckit  when  I  kent  ye,  an' 
I  cam'  to  the  hoose  afore  ye  kent  yer  richt  hand  f rae 
yer  left.  You  were  a  wee  white-heided  cratur  and 
Maister  Robbie  wasna  shortened." 

"Ah,  but  were  you  there  when  Mark  fell  out 
of  the  carriage  and  was  so  frightfully  hurt*?  I've 
been  told  by  Aunt  Agatha  that  no  one  had  time  to 
attend  to  me,  and  I  was  just  shut  up  in  a  room  with 

75 


76     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

some  toys  and  fed  at  intervals.  It's  a  wonder  that 
the  Cruelty  to  Children  people  didn't  get  you." 

"Havers,"  said  Marget. 

"That  was  a  terrible  time,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said. 
"Mark  was  four,  and  beginning  to  get  stronger. 
You  were  a  year  old,  Ann.  It  was  a  lovely  day  in 
June,  and  Mr.  Kerr,  in  the  kindness  of  his  heart, 
sent  a  carriage  to  take  us  all  for  a  drive." 

"I  mind  fine  o'  Mr.  Kerr,"  Marget  broke  in. 
"He  was  fair  bigoted  on  the  kirk.  I  dinna  think 
he  ever  missed  a  Sabbath's  service  or  a  Wednesday 
prayer-meeting." 

"I  mind  of  him,  too,"  said  Ann.  "He  had  white 
hair  and  bushy  white  eyebrows,  and  a  fierce  expres- 
sion and  an  ebony  stick  with  an  ivory  handle.  He 
used  to  give  Mark  presents  at  Christmas  time,  but  he 
ignored  the  existence  of  the  rest  of  us.  I  remember 
we  went  to  see  him  once,  and  he  presented  Mark 
with  a  book.  Mark  took  it  and  said,  'Yes,  and  what 
for  Ann*?'  and  Mr.  Kerr  had  to  fumble  about  and 
produce  something  for  me  while  I  waited  stolidly, 
quite  unabashed  by  my  brother's  unconventional 
behaviour." 

"Mr.  Kerr  was  the  best  friend  the  Kirkcaple 
Church  had,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said.  "He  'joyed'  in 
its  prosperity — how  he  struggled  to  get  the  members 
to  increase  their  givings.  His  great  desire  was  that 
it  should  give  more  largely  than  the  parish  kirk  of 
the  district.    People  may  talk  about  union  and  one 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       77 

great  Church,  but  when  we  are  all  one  Fm  afraid 
there  may  be  a  lack  of  interest — a  falling  off  in 
endeavour.  St.  Paul  knew  what  he  was  talking 
about  when  he  spoke  of  'provoking'  one  another  to 
love  and  good  works.  ...  At  first  I  couldn't  bear 
Mr.  Kerr.  If  I  let  your  father  forget  an  intimation, 
or  if  a  funeral  was  forgotten,  or  someone  was  neg- 
lected, he  came  to  the  Manse  in  a  passion.  I  fled 
at  the  sight  of  him.  But  gradually  I  found  that 
his  fierceness  wasn't  to  be  feared,  and  that  it  was 
the  sheer  interest  he  took  that  made  him  hate  things 
to  go  wrong — and  one  is  grateful  to  people  who  take 
a  real  interest,  however  oddly  they  may  show  it." 

"So  Mr.  Kerr  sent  his  carriage,"  Ann  prompted. 

"Mr.  Kerr  sent  his  carriage,"  said  her  mother, 
"and  we  set  out  to  have  a  picnic  on  the  Loan.  We 
were  as  merry  as  children.  You  were  on  my  knee, 
Ann,  and  Agatha  sat  beside  me,  your  father  and 
Mark  opposite.  We  were  about  Thornkirk,  and 
Mark,  who  was  always  mad  about  flowers,  pointing 
to  the  dusty  roadside,  cried,  'A  bluebell,'  and  sud- 
denly made  a  spring  against  the  door,  which,  to  our 
horror,  opened,  and  Mark  fell  out.  ...  I  don't 
know  what  happened  next.  The  first  thing  I  knew 
I  was  in  a  cottage  frantically  pulling  at  a  chest  of 
drawers  and  crying  for  something  to  cover  the  awful 
wound.  By  great  good  fortune  our  own  doctor 
happened  to  pass  in  his  dogcart  just  then.  All  he 
said  was,  'Take  him  home.'  .  .  .  He  stayed  with 


78     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

us  most  of  the  night,  but  he  could  give  us  no  hope 
that  the  child  would  live,  or,  living,  have  his  reason. 
For  days  he  lay  unconscious,  sometimes  raving, 
sometimes  pitifully  moaning.  Agatha  and  I  knew 
nothing  of  nursing,  and  there  were  no  trained  nurses 
in  those  days — at  least,  not  in  Kirkcaple.  What 
would  have  happened  to  us  all  I  know  not  if  Mrs. 
Peat  hadn't  appeared  like  a  good  angel  on  the  scene. 
It  was  wonderful  of  her  to  come.  A  fortnight  be- 
fore she  had  got  news  that  her  son  in  India — her 
idolised  only  son — had  been  killed  in  some  native 
rising,  and  she  put  her  own  grief  aside  and  came  to' 
us.  *My  dear,'  she  said,  I've  come  to  take  the 
nights,  if  you  will  let  me.  You're  young,  and  you 
need  your  sleep.'  So  every  evening  she  came  and 
sat  up — night  after  night  for  four  long  weeks.  I 
used  to  go  into  the  night  nursery  on  those  summer 
mornings — I  was  so  young  and  strong  that,  anxious 
as  I  was  I  couldn't  help  sleeping — and  find  Mrs. 
Peat  sitting  there  with  her  cap  ribbons  unruffled,  her 
hair  smooth,  so  serene  looking  that  no  one  could 
have  believed  that  she  had  kept  a  weary  vigil.  She 
was  a  born  nurse,  and  she  possessed  a  healing  touch. 
I  believe  she  did  more  than  anyone  to  pull  Mark 
through;  and  all  the  time  we  were  in  Kirkcaple  she 
was  a  tower  of  strength  to  me.  Always  twice  a 
week  she  came  up  early  in  the  afternoon  and  stayed 
till  evening,  her  cap  in  the  neatest  little  basket  in 
her  hand — for  she  always  took  off  her  bonnet.     I 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       79 

think  I  hear  her  saying,  'Eh,  my  dear,'  with  a  sort 
of  slow  emphasis  on  the  'my.'  She  never  made  mis- 
chief in  the  congregation  by  boasting  how  'far  ben' 
she  was  at  the  Manse.  She  had  a  mind  far  above 
petty  things;  she  dreamed  dreams  and  saw  visions." 

Mrs.  Douglas  stopped  and  laughed.  "Your 
father,  who  admired  her  very  much,  had  been  telling 
an  old  body  troubled  with  sleepless  nights  how  Mrs. 
Peat  spent  her  wakeful  hours,  and  she  said  to  me, 
*It's  an  awfu'  job  to  rowe  aboot  in  this  bed  a'  night; 
I  wisht  I  had  some  o'  Mrs.  Peat's  veesions.'  " 

"I  mind  Mistress  Peat,"  said  Marget,  who  had 
now  seated  herself;  "I  mind  her  fine.  She  was  a 
rale  fine  buddy.  Miss  Peat  was  a  braw  wumman. 
D'ye  mind  her  comin'  to  a  pairty  we  had  in  a  crim- 
son satin  body  an'  her  hair  a'  crimpit  an'  pearls 
aboot  as  big  as  bantam's  eggs^    Eh,  I  say!" 

"I  remember  the  pearls,"  said  Ann.  "I  suppose 
they  were  paste,  but  I  thought  the  Queen  of  Sheba 
couldn't  have  been  much  more  impressive  than  Miss 
Peat.  She  had  a  velvet  coat  trimmed  with  some  sort 
of  feather  trimming,  and  a  muff  to  match — beautiful 
soft  grey  feathers.  I  used  to  lean  against  her  and 
stroke  it  and  think  it  was  like  a  dove's  breast.  I 
overheard  someone  say  that  it  was  marvellous  to 
think  that  the  Peats  had  no  servants  and  that  Miss 
Peat  could  clean  pots  and  cook,  and  then  emerge 
like  Solomon  in  all  his  glory.  After  that,  when  we 
sang  the  psalm: 


8o     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

'Though  ye  have  lain  among  the  pots 
Like  doves  ye  shall  appear  .  .  .' 

I  thought  of  Miss  Peat  in  her  velvet  coat  and  her 
soft  feathers.  .  .  .  Was  she  good  to  you,  too,  when 
Mark  was  so  ill?' 

"I  should  think  she  was — but  everyone  was  good. 
At  the  time  I  took  it  all  as  a  matter  of  course,  but 
afterwards  I  realised  it.  For  days  Mark  lay  deliri- 
ous, and  I  was  distraught  with  the  thought  that  his 
brain  might  be  injured;  you  see,  the  wheel  passed 
over  the  side  of  his  head.  When  he  became  con- 
scious at  last,  the  doctor  told  me  to  ask  him  some 
questions.  I  could  think  of  nothing,  and  then  I 
remembered  that  Mark  had  had  a  special  fondness 
for  Crichton,  our  butcher.  Trembling,  I  asked, 
'Darling,  what  is  the  butcher  called?'  and  in  a  flash 
he  answered  'Mr.  Cwichton.'  I  wept  with  relief. 
But  it  seemed  as  if  the  poor  little  chap  was  never  to 
be  given  a  chance  to  get  well.  Three  times  the 
wound  healed  and  three  times  it  had  to  be  opened 
again.  No  wonder  our  thoughts  were  all  for  him, 
and  that  you  were  neglected,  Ann,  poor  child  I 
And  you  were  so  good,  so  little  trouble,  it  almost 
seemed  as  if  you  understood.  Mark  had  a  great 
big  wooden  box  filled  with  every  kind  of  dry  sweetie, 
and  he  would  sit  propped  up  with  pillows,  and 
weigh  them,  and  make  them  up  in  little  'pokes.' 
Sometimes  he  would  ask  for  you,  and  you  were 
brought  in,  so  delighted  to  play  on  the  bed  and 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       81 

crawl  about,  but  very  soon  he  tired  of  you  (espe- 
cially if  you  touched  his  sweeties  I),  and  ordered  you 
away.  He  could  not  be  allowed  to  cry,  and  we  had 
to  devise  things  to  keep  him  amused.  Opening  lucky 
bags  was  a  great  diversion.  They  cost  a  ha'penny 
each,  and  he  made  away  with  dozens  in  a  day.  The 
great  difficulty  was  getting  him  to  eat.  At  Etterick 
he  was  accustomed  to  going  to  the  milk-house  and 
getting  new  milk  from  the  pail  into  his  'tinny,' 
and  when  he  was  ill  he  wouldn't  touch  milk,  because 
he  said  it  wasn't  'Etterick  milk.'  So  your  father 
scoured  Kirkcaple  until  he  found  a  'tinny,'  and  a  pail 
as  nearly  as  possible  like  the  milk-pails  at  Etterick, 
and  we  took  them  to  the  nursery,  and  said,  'Now, 
then,  Mark,  is  this  real  Etterick  milk?'  and  the  poor 
little  man  held  out  his  thin  hands  for  the  'tinny' 
and  drank  greedily.  ...  He  lay  for  six  months, 
and  when  he  got  up  he  had  to  be  taught  how  to 
walk  I  And  even  after  we  got  him  up  and  out  he 
was  the  most  pathetic  little  figure,  with  a  bandaged 
head  far  too  big  for  his  shadow  of  a  body.  But  I 
was  so  proud  of  having  got  him  so  far  on  the  way  to 
recovery  that  I  didn't  realise  how  he  looked  to  out- 
siders, until  a  very  cruel  thing  was  said  to  me  the 
very  first  time  I  had  him  out.  A  man  we  knew 
slightly  stopped  to  ask  for  him,  and  said,  'It  seems 
almost  a  pity  he  pulled  through.  I'm  afraid  he  will 
never  be  anything  but  an  object.'  I  don't  think  he 
meant  to  hurt  me ;  perhaps  it  was  just  sheer  stupidity. 


82     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

but  ...  It  was  a  man  called  Temple  who  said  it. 
You  never  knew  him,  Ann." 

"Temple,"  said  Marget.  "Dauvit  Temple  the 
manufacturer?  Eh,  the  impident  fella'.  Him  to  ca' 
onybody,  let  alone  Mr.  Mark,  an  objec'.  Objec' 
himseF.  It  wad  hae  been  tellin'  him  if  he  hed  fa' en 
on  his  heid  an'  gien  his  brains  a  bit  jumble,  but  I 
doot  if  the  puir  sowl  had  ony  to  jumble;  he  hed  a 
heid  like  a  hen.  He  was  fit  for  naething  but  ridin' 
in  a  high  dogcart  an'  tryin'  to  forget  that  his  dacent 
auld  mither  bleached  her  claes  on  the  Panny  Braes 
an'  his  f aither  worked  in  the  pit.  But  ye  needna  fash 
yersel'  aboot  him  and  his  say  in' s  noo,  Mem.  He's 
gone  to  his  reward — such  as  it  is." 

"Indeed,  Marget,  it's  a  poor  thing  to  bear  malice, 
and  I  believe  that  awful  accident  was  the  making 
of  Mark.  He  grew  up  as  strong  as  a  Shetland  pony. 
He  was  an  extraordinarily  clever  little  boy.  We 
were  told  not  to  try  and  teach  him  till  he  was  seven, 
but  he  taught  himself  to  read  from  the  posters.  He 
asked  endless  questions  of  everyone  he  met,  and  so 
acquired  information.  There  was  nothing  he  wasn't 
interested  in,  and  every  week  brought  a  fresh  craze. 
At  one  time  it  was  fowls,  and  he  spent  hours  with 
Mrs.  Frew,  a  specialist  on  the  subject,  and  came 
home  with  coloured  pictures  of  prize  cocks  which  he 
insisted  on  pinning  round  the  nursery  walls.  For  a 
long  time  it  was  ships,  and  he  and  Mr.  Peat,  who 
was  a  retired  sea-captain,  spent  most  of  their  time 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       83 

at  the  harbour.  Next  it  was  precious  stones,  and  he 
accosted  every  lady  (whether  known  to  him  or  not}, 
and  asked  her  about  the  stones  she  was  wearing." 

"Yes/'  said  Ann,  "he  was  a  wonderful  contrast 
to  Robbie  and  me.  We  never  asked  for  information 
on  any  subject,  for  we  wanted  none.  We  were  ig- 
norant and  unashamed,  and  we  used  to  look  with 
such  bored  eyes  at  Mark  and  wonder  how  he  could 
be  bothered.  It  was  really  disgusting  for  the  rest 
of  us  to  have  such  a  clever  eldest  brother.  He  set  a 
standard  which  we  couldn't  hope — indeed,  we  never 
thought  of  trying — to  attain  to.  What  a  boy  he 
was  for  falling  on  his  head!  He  had  been  warned 
that  if  he  cut  open  the  wound  in  his  head  again  it 
would  never  heal,  so  when  he  fell  from  a  tree,  or  a 
cart,  or  a  pony,  or  whatever  he  was  on  at  the  mo- 
ment, we  stood  afar  off  and  shouted,  'Is  it  your 
wound,  Mark?'  prepared  on  hearing  it  was  to  run  as 
far  as  our  legs  would  carry  us.  That  is  a  child's 
great  idea  when  trouble  comes — to  run  away  from 
it.  Once  Mark — do  you  remember? — climbed  the 
white  lilac  tree  in  my  garden  on  a  Sunday  afternoon 
and,  slipping,  fell  on  a  spiked  branch  and  hung 
there.  Instead  of  going  for  help  I  ran  and  hid 
among  the  gooseberry  bushes,  and  he  wasn't  rescued 
until  you  came  home  from  church." 

"That  was  too  bad  of  you,"  her  mother  said,  "for 
Mark  had  always  a  great  responsibility  for  you. 
One  day  when  there  was  a  bad  thunderstorm  I  found 


84     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

him  dragging  you  by  the  hand  to  the  nursery — such  a 
fat,  sulky  little  thing  you  looked. 

"  I'm  going  to  pray  for  Ann,'  he  told  me.     'She 
won't  pray  for  herself.'  " 


CHAPTER  VIII 

1DONT  know,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "when  I 
first  realised  what  was  expected  of  me  as  a 
minister's  wife.  I  suppose  I  just  grew  to  it.  At 
first  I  visited  the  people  and  tried  to  take  an  interest 
in  them,  because  I  felt  it  to  be  my  duty,  and  then 
I  found  that  it  had  ceased  to  be  merely  duty,  and 
that  one  couldn't  live  among  people  and  not  go 
shares  with  them.  It  was  the  long  anxiety  about 
Mark  that  really  drew  us  together  and  made  us 
friends  in  a  way  that  years  of  prosperity  would  never 
have  done.  There  was  hardly  a  soul  in  the  congre- 
gation who  didn't  try  to  do  us  some  little  kindness 
in  those  dark  days.  Fife  people  are  suspicious  of 
strangers  and  rather  aloof  in  their  manner,  but  once 
you  are  their  friend  you  are  a  friend  for  life.  Ours 
was  a  working-class  congregation  (with  a  sprinkling 
of  well-to-do  people  to  help  us  along) — miners,  and 
workers  in  the  linoleum  factories — decent,  thrifty 
folk.  Trade  was  dull  all  the  time  we  were  in  Kirk- 
caple,  and  wages  were  low — ridiculously  low  when 
you  think  of  the  present-day  standard,  and  it  was 
a  hard  struggle  for  the  mothers  with  big  young 
families.  Of  course,  food  was  cheap — half  a  loaf 
and  a  biscuit  for  twopence — and  'penny  baddies,' 

85 


86     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

and  eggs  at  ninepence  a  dozen — and  people  hadn't 
the  exalted  ideas  they  have  now." 

"Well,"  said  Ann,  who  was  busy  filling  her  foun- 
tain-pen, "I  seem  to  remember  rather  luxurious  liv- 
ing about  the  Mid  Street,  and  the  Nether  Street,  and 
the  Watery  Wynd.  Don't  you  remember  I  made 
friends  with  some  girls  playing  'the  pal-lals'  in  the 
street,  and  fetched  them  home  with  me,  and  when 
upbraided  for  so  doing  by  Ellie  Robbie  in  the  nurs- 
ery, I  said,  'But  they're  gentry;  they  get  kippers  to 
their  tea.'  My  'bare-footed  gentry'  became  a  family 
jest." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed,  "I  remember.  To  save 
your  face  we  let  them  stay  to  tea,  but  you  were  told 
'Never  again.'  " 

"It  was  a  way  I  had,"  said  Ann.  "I  was  full 
of  hospitable  instincts,  and  liked  to  invite  people; 
but  as  I  had  seldom  the  moral  courage  to  confess 
what  I  had  done,  the  results  were  disastrous.  Once 
I  invited  eight  genteel  young  friends  who,  thinking 
it  was  a  pukka  invitation,  arrived  washed  and 
brushed  and  dressed  for  a  party,  only  to  find  us 
tearing  about  the  garden  in  our  old  Saturday  clothes. 
Ellie  Robbie  was  justly  incensed,  as  she  hadn't  even 
a  sugar-biscuit  to  give  an  air  of  festivity  to  the  nurs- 
ery tea,  and  you  were  out.  In  private  she  addressed 
me  as  'ye  little  dirt';  but  she  didn't  give  me  away 
in  public.    And  the  dreadful  thing  was  that  I  re- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      87 

pudiated  my  guests,  and  looked  as  if  I  wondered 
what  they  were  doing  there." 

"Poor  Ellie  Robbie!"  Mrs.  Douglas  said.  "She 
was  an  anxious  pilgrim,  and  you  children  worried 
her  horribly.  She  came  when  she  was  sixteen  to  be 
nursemaid  to  Mark,  and  she  stayed  on  till  we  left 
Kirkcaple,  when  she  married  the  joiner.  Do  you 
remember  her  much?" 

"I  remember  one  evening  in  the  Den.  We  were 
getting  fern-roots,  and  Ellie  Robbie  and  Marget 
were  both  with  us,  and  Marget  said  to  Ellie,  *My, 
how  neat  your  dress  kicks  out  at  the  back  when  you 
walk!'  Isn't  memory  an  extraordinary  thing?  I've 
forgotten  most  of  the  things  I  ought  to  have  re- 
membered, but  I  can  recall  every  detail  of  that  scene 
— the  earthy  smell  of  the  fern-roots,  the  trowel  stick- 
ing out  of  Mark's  pocket,  the  sunlight  falling 
through  the  trees,  the  pleased  smirk  on  Ellie  Rob- 
bie's face.  I  suppose  I  would  be  about  five.  At  that 
time  I  was  completely  lost  about  my  age.  When 
people  asked  me  how  old  I  was,  I  kept  on  saying, 
'Five  past,'  but  to  myself  I  said,  'I  must  be  far  more, 
but  no  one  has  ever  told  me.'  .  .  .  What  was  Ellie 
Robbie's  real  name?" 

"Ellen  Robinson.  Her  father's  name  was  Jack, 
and  he  was  supposed  by  you  children  to  be  the  orig- 
inal of  the  saying,  'Before  you  can  say  Jack  Robin- 
son.' Marget  and  Ellie  got  on  very  well  together, 
although  they  were  as  the  poles  asunder — Ellie  so 


88     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

small  and  neat  and  gentle,  Marget  rather  like  a 
benevolent  elephant.  She  is  a  much  better-looking 
old  woman  than  she  was  a  young  one." 

"Did  Marget  come  when  Maggie  Ann  married*?" 
"Yes.  No — there  was  one  between — Katie  Herd. 
She  stayed  a  month  and  was  doing  very  well,  but 
she  suddenly  announced  that  she  was  going  home. 
When  we  asked  her  why,  she  replied  with  great  can- 
dour, 1  dinna  like  it  verra  weel,'  and  off  she  went. 
Marget  was  a  success  from  the  first.  We  knew  it 
was  all  right  as  soon  as  she  began  to  talk  of  *oor 
bairns.'  When  the  work  was  over  she  liked  to  go 
to  the  nursery,  and  you  children  welcomed  her  with 
enthusiasm,  and  at  once  called  on  her  to  say  her 
poem.  Then  she  would  stand  up  and  shuffle  her 
feet,  and  say: 

'Marget  Meikle  is  ma  name, 
Scotland  is  ma  nation, 
Harehope  is  ma  dwelling  place — 
A  pleasant  habitation.' 

You  delighted  in  her  witticisms.  'Ca'  me  names, 
ca'  me  onything,  but  dinna  ca'  me  ower,'  was  one 
that  had  a  great  success.  Both  she  and  Ellie  were 
ideal  servants  for  a  minister's  house;  they  were  both 
so  discreet.  No  tales  were  ever  carried  by  them  to 
or  from  the  Manse.  There  was  one  noted  gossip  in 
the  congregation  who  was  a  terror  to  Ellie.  Her 
husband  had  a  shop,  and  of  course  we  dealt  at  it — 
he  was  an  elder  in  the  church — and  Ellie  dreaded 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      89 

going  in,  for  she  knew  that  if  Mrs.  Beaton  happened 
to  be  there  she  would  be  subjected  to  a  fire  of  ques- 
tions. Marget  enjoyed  an  encounter,  and  liked  to 
think  out  ways  of  defeating  Mrs.  Beaton's  curiosity. 
Not  that  there  was  any  harm  in  Mrs.  Beaton  and  her 
desire  to  know  all  our  doings.  I  dare  say  it  was 
only  kindly  interest.  I  got  to  like  her  very  much; 
she  was  a  racy  talker  and  full  of  whinstone  common 
sense.  I  was  sorry  for  her,  too,  for  no  woman  ever 
worked  harder,  both  in  the  shop  and  in  the  house, 
and  her  husband  and  family  took  it  all  for  granted. 
She  did  kind  things  in  an  ungracious  way,  and  was 
vexed  when  people  failed  to  appreciate  her  kindness. 
Across  the  road  from  Mrs.  Beaton  lived  another 
elder's  wife,  Mrs.  Lister,  who,  Mrs.  Beaton  thought, 
got  from  life  the  very  things  she  had  missed. 

"  'Never  toil  yourself  to  death,'  she  used  to  tell 
me,  *for  your  man  and  your  bairns;  they'll  no  thank 
you  for  it.  Look  at  the  Listers  over  there.  Willie 
Lister  goes  about  with  holes  like  half-crowns  in  his 
heels,  but  he  thinks  the  world  of  his  Aggie.'  And  it 
was  quite  true.  I  knew  that  gentle  little  Mrs.  Lister 
was  everybody's  favourite,  for  she  contradicted  no 
one,  ruffled  no  one's  feelings,  while  rough-tongued, 
honest,  impudent  Mrs.  Beaton  was  both  feared  and 
disliked.  And  yet  there  was  no  doubt  which  of  the 
two  women  one  would  have  chosen  to  ride  the  ford 
with.  Had  a  tea-meeting  to  be  arranged,  a  sale  of 
work  to  be  organised,  or  a  Christmas-tree  to  be  pro- 


90     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

vided  for  Sunday  school,  Mrs.  Beaton  was  in  it — 
purse  and  person. 

"Mrs.  Lister  always  took  'the  bile'  when  anything 
was  expected  of  her.  Once  a  year  we  were  invited 
to  tea  at  the  Listers'  house,  and  as  sure  as  we  found 
ourselves  seated  before  a  table  groaning  with  bake- 
meats  and  were  being  pressed  by  Mr.  Lister  to  par- 
take of  them  because  they  were  all  baked  by 
'Mamaw,'  Mrs.  Lister  would  say,  'Ay,  and  I  had 
a  job  baking  them — for  I  was  bad  with  "the  bile" 
all  morning.'  As  Marget  says,  'The  mistress  is  awfu' 
easy  scunnered,'  and  after  hearing  that  my  tea  was 
a  pretence.  It  was  worse  when  Agatha  was  there, 
for  then  we  were  apt  to  wait  for  the  announcement, 
and  when  it  came  give  way  to  painful,  secret  laugh- 
ter. Agatha  always  laughed,  too,  when  Mrs.  Lister 
capped  her  husband's  sayings  with  'Ay,  that's  it, 
Paw.'  She  was  a  most  agreeable  wife,  but  she  was 
a  mother  before  everything.  She  would  have  talked 
all  day  about  her  children,  bursting  out  with  odd 
little  disjointed  confidences  about  them  in  the  mid- 
dle of  a  conversation  about  something  else.  'He's 
an  awful  nice  boy,  Johnnie;  he's  got  a  fine  voice,' 
would  occur  in  a  conversation  about  the  Sustentation 
Fund,  and  in  the  middle  of  a  discussion  about  a 
series  of  lectures  she  would  whisper,  'He's  a  queer 
laddie,  our  Tommy.  When  Nettie  was  born  he  put 
his  head  round  my  bedroom  door  and  said,  "Is  she 
a  richt  ane.  Maw?"     He  meant  not  deaf  or  dumb 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER      91 

or  anything,  you  know/  She  sometimes  irritated  her 
husband  by  her  overanxiety  about  the  health  of  her 
children.  If  one  coughed  in  the  night  she  always 
heard  and,  fearful  of  waking  Mr.  Lister,  she  would 
creep  out  of  bed  and  jump  from  mat  to  mat  (I  can 
see  her  doing  it — a  sort  of  anxious  little  antelope), 
and  listen  to  their  breathing,  and  hap  them  up  with 
extra  bedclothes.  Nettie  was  the  youngest,  and  the 
delicate  one,  and  had  to  be  tempted  to  eat.  *0h,  ma 
Nettie,*  she  would  say,  'could  you  take  a  taste  of 
haddie  to  your  tea  or  a  new-laid  egg*?' 

"She  was  afraid  of  nearly  everything — ^mice,  and 
wind,  and  thunder,  and  she  hated  the  sea.  One 
morning  I  met  her  almost  distraught  because  her 
boys  had  all  gone  out  in  a  boat.  'Is  their  father  with 
them^'  I  asked.  'No,  no,'  she  said,  1  didna  let  him 
go;  it  was  just  the  more  to  drown.'  Poor,  anxious 
little  body !  God  took  her  first,  and  she  never  had 
the  anguish  of  parting  with  her  children.  .  .  . 
What  an  opportunity  ministers  and  ministers'  wives 
have  of  getting  to  know  people  as  they  are — their 
very  hearts!" 

"Yes,"  said  Ann;  "but  it  isn't  every  minister  or 
every  minister's  wife  who  can  make  anything  of  the 
opportunity.  Just  think  of  some  we  know — sticks. 
Can  you  think  of  any  poor  stricken  soul  going  to 
them  to  be  comforted  'as  one  whom  his  mother  com- 
forteth'?  What  would  they  say*?  'Oh,  indeed! 
How  sad !'  or  'Really !    I'm  very  sorry.'    Some  little 


92     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

stilted  sentence  that  would  freeze  the  very  fount  of 
tears.  You,  Mother,  I  don't  think  you  would  say 
anything.  To  speak  to  those  who  weep  is  no  use; 
you  must  be  able  in  all  sincerity  to  weep  with  them. 
As  for  Father,  his  voice  was  enough.  Isn't  it  in  one 
of  the  Elizabeth  books  that  someone  talking  of  the 
futility  of  long,  dull  sermons,  says,  'If  only  a  man 
with  a  voice  of  gold  would  stand  up  and  say,  * 'Chil- 
dren, Christ  died  for  you,"  I  would  lay  down  my 
head  and  cry  and  cry  .  .  .'  Oh,  it's  a  great  life  if 
a  minister  and  his  wife  are  any  good  at  their  job, 
and,  above  all,  if  they  have  a  sense  of  humour!" 

"Well,  I  don't  know  about  the  sense  of  humour," 
Mrs.  Douglas  said  doubtfully.  "I  have  often  envied 
the  people  who  never  seem  overcome  by  the  ludi- 
crous side  of  things,  who  don't  even  seem  aware  that 
it  is  there.  Do  you  remember  Mrs.  Daw?  I  dare 
say  not.  My  first  meeting  with  her  was  in  the  Path 
on  a  hot  summer's  day.  I  saw  an  enormously  stout 
woman  toiling  in  front  of  me  with  a  heavy  basket, 
and  as  I  passed  her  she  laid  down  her  load,  and  turn- 
ing to  me  a  red,  perspiring,  but  surprisingly  bland 
countenance,  said,  'Hech!  but  it's  a  sair  world  for 
stout  folk.'  There  was  something  so  Falstaffian  and 
jocund  about  the  great  figure,  and  the  way  she  took 
me  into  her  confidence,  that  I  simply  stood  still  and 
laughed,  and  she  laughed  with  me.  We  shared  the 
basket  between  us  the  rest  of  the  way,  and  after  that 
I  often  visited  her.    But  I  could  never  let  your  father 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       93 

come  with  me;  Mrs.  Daw  was  too  much  for  us  to- 
gether. Only  once  we  tried  it,  and  she  told  us  that 
the  doctor  had  advised  her  to  take  'sheriff-wine  and 
Van  Houtong's  cocoah,'  and  her  genteel  pronuncia- 
tion was  too  much  for  us.  She  was  never  at  her  best 
when  your  father  was  there;  she  didn't  care  for  the 
clergy. 

"  'A  lazy  lot/  she  called  them.  *No  wan  o'  them 
does  a  decent  day's  work.  If  it  was  me  I  wad  mak' 
a'  the  ministers  pollismen  as  weel,  and  that  wad  save 
some  o'  the  country's  siller.'  She  condescended  to 
say  that  she  rather  liked  your  father's  preaching, 
though  her  reason  for  liking  it  was  not  very  flatter- 
ing. *I  like  him  because  he's  no  what  ye  ca'  a 
scholarly  preacher.  I  dinna  like  thae  scholars, 
they're  michty  dull.  I  like  the  kind  o'  minister  that 
misca's  the  deevil  for  aboot  twenty  meenits  and  then 
stops.' 

"Mrs.  Daw  had  me  bogged  at  once  when  we 
started  on  theological  discussions.  She  would  ask 
questions  and  answer  them  herself  as  she  knelt  before 
the  kitchen  fire,  engaged  in  what  she  called  'ringein' 
the  ribs.' 

"  *Ay,'  she  would  say,  I'm  verra  fond  o'  a  clear 
fire.  Mercy  me,  it'll  be  an  awfu'  want  in  heaven — 
a  guid  fire.  Ye  read  aboot  golden  streets  and  pearly 
gates,  but  it's  cauld  comfort  to  an  auld  body  wha 
likes  her  ain  fireside.  Of  coorse  we'll  a'  be  speerits.' 
(It  needed  a  tremendous  effort  of  imagination  to 


94     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

picture  Mrs.  Daw  as  a  spirit!)  'Wull  speerit  ken 
speerit?'  and  then,  as  if  in  scorn  at  her  own  ques- 
tion, 'I  daur  say  no!  It  wad  be  little  use  if  they 
did.  I  could  get  sma'  enjoyment  frae  crackin'  wi^  a 
neebor,  if  a'  the  time  I  was  lookin'  through  her,  and 
her  through  me.  An'  what  wad  we  crack  aboot? 
Nae  couthy  bits  o'  gossip  up  there — juist  harps  an' 
angels  fleein'  aboot.  .  .  .' 

"I  would  suggest  diffidently  that  when  we  had 
gone  on  to  another  and  higher  life  we  wouldn't  feel 
the  want  of  the  homely  things  so  necessary  to  us 
here,  and  Mrs.  Daw,  shaking  her  head,  would  say, 
*I  dinna  ken,'  and  then  with  her  great  laUjgh  (your 
father  used  to  quote  something  about  a  thousand 
beeves  at  pasture  when  he  heard  it)  she  would  finish 
the  profitless  discussion  with  'Weel,  sit  ye  doun  by 
ma  guid  fire  and  I'll  mak'  ye  a  cup  o'  tea  in  ma 
granny's  cheeny  teapot.  We'll  tak'  our  comforts  so 
long  as  we  hae  them,  for  think  as  ye  like  the  next 
warld's  a  queer  turn-up  onyway.  .  •  .'  " 


CHAPTER  IX 

EVENING  had  come  again  to  Dreams,  but  Ann, 
instead  of  being  found  at  her  writing-table, 
was  stretched  flat  in  the  largest  and  softest  of  the 
many  comfortable  chairs  the  room  contained,  with 
the  Tatler,  a  great,  furry,  sleepy  mass,  curled  in  her 
arms. 

"Dear  me,  Ann!"  Mrs.  Douglas  said,  looking  up 
from  her  "reading."  "You  seem  very  exhausted. 
Aren't  you  going  to  write  to-night?" 

Ann  looked  through  half-closed  eyes  at  her 
mother. 

"Can't,"  she  said  lazily;  "too  dog-tired.  A  tea- 
party  in  the  Green  Glen  is  too  much  for  me.  After 
such  unwonted  excitement  I  must  sit  all  evening 
with  my  hands  before  me.  Mother,  did  we  ever 
really  entertain  people  day  after  day — relays  of 
them?  I  can't  believe  to-night  that  we  ever  pre- 
sided at  meetings,  and  read  papers,  and  gave  away 
prizes,  and  organised  sales  of  work  and  cookery 
classes  for  the  masses,  and  visited  the  sick,  and 
talked  for  ever  and  did  not  faint — such  feeble  folk 
as  we  have  beccHne." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sighed  as  she  laid  down  Hours  of 

95 


96     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

Silence.  "I  was  of  some  use  in  the  world  then,"  she 
said,  "not  a  mere  cumberer  of  the  ground." 

Ann  sat  up  and  laughed  at  her  mother.  "Fm  not 
going  to  rise  to  that  fly,  Motherkin.  You  remind 
me  of  the  Glasgow  woman  we  met  in  Switzerland, 
who  was  suffering  from  some  nervous  trouble,  and 
who  said,  1  would  give  a  thousand  pounds  to  be  the 
Mistress  Finlay  I  once  was.'  Perhaps  you  are  not 
quite  the  Mistress  Douglas  you  once  were,  but  I  can 
see  very  little  difference." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sighed  again,  and  shook  her  head. 
"Oh — sic  a  worrit-lookin'  wumman!"  Ann  quoted. 
Then,  "I  must  say  I  enjoyed  the  tea-party.  Mother, 
don't  you  like  Mr.  Sharp?  I  do.  You  needn't  have 
rubbed  it  in  about  sermons  being  no  use  if  they  are 
read.  He  sat  with  such  a  guilty  look  like  a  scolded 
dog.  I  like  his  painstaking  sermons  and  his  sincere, 
difficult  little  prayers.  He  will  never  make  a 
preacher,  but  he  is  a  righteous  man.  Miss  Ellen 
Scott  cheered  him  by  saying  read  sermons  were  gen- 
erally more  thoughtful.  I  do  wish  we  could  see  the 
Scotts  oftener.  They  have  promised  to  come  to 
luncheon  one  day,  and  go  thoroughly  into  the  garden 
question.  They  go  south,  they  told  me,  in  the  early 
spring,  so  that  the  servants  may  get  the  house-clean- 
ing done,  and  they  weary  all  the  time  to  get  back. 
I  wonder  if  they  carry  about  them  in  London  that 
sort  of  fragrance  of  the  open  air." 

"They  are  nice  women,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "and 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       97 

good,  but  they  aren't  my  kind  of  people.  We  don't 
care  about  the  same  things.  But  Mr.  Sharp  makes 
me  feel  young  again ;  he  has  the  very  atmosphere  of 
a  manse  about  him." 

"The  atmosphere  of  Mr.  Sharp's  Manse  is  chiefly 
paraffin  oil,"  said  Ann. 

At  that  moment  Marget  came  into  the  room, 
ostensibly  to  remind  Ann  of  something  needed  at 
the  village  shop  the  next  day,  but  really  to  talk  over 
the  tea-party. 

"I  think  the  minister  enjoyed  his  tea,"  she  re- 
marked, "for  there  was  an  awfu'  wheen  scones 
eaten." 

"He  did,  indeed,  Marget,"  her  mistress  assured 
her.  "He  said  he  didn't  know  when  he  had  tasted 
such  good  scones.  He  was  asking  me  what  I  thought 
about  him  entertaining  the  office-bearers.  He  would 
like  to,  but  his  housekeeper  is  delicate  and  afraid  of 
work;  and  he's  afraid  to  suggest  anything  in  case 
she  departs." 

"TetsI"  said  Marget.  "That  wumman  fair  an- 
gers me.  She's  neither  sick  nor  sair,  an'  she's  no' 
that  auld  aither,  but  she  keeps  that  puir  laddie  in 
misery  a'  the  time  in  case  she's  gaun  to  break  doon. 
She  never  bakes  him  a  scone,  juist  loaf  breed  a'  the 
time,  an'  she'll  no'  bother  to  mak'  him  a  bit  steamed 
pudden'  or  a  tert,  juist  aye  a  milk- thing,  an'  a  gey 
watery  milk-thing  at  that.  She  boasts  that  he  car- 
ries trays  for  her  and  breaks  sticks — the  wumman 


98     ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

should  be  ashamed  to  let  the  minister  demean  him- 
ser.  If  he  wants  to  gie  an  Elders'  Supper,  what's 
to  hinder  me  and  Mysie  to  gang  doon  and  gie  a 
hand?' 

"Why,  Marget,"  Ann  cried,  "I  haven't  heard  that 
expression  since  I  was  a  child.  It  was  at  Kirkcaple 
we  had  Elders'  Suppers,  wasn't  it,  Mother — never  in 
Glasgow?' 

"Only  in  Kirkcaple.  They  were  held  after  the 
November  Communions  to  purge  the  roll." 

"Purge  the  roll^'  Ann  murmured  to  herself;  "of 
all  delicious  phrases !" 

"If  ye'll  excuse  me,  Mem,"  said  Marget,  "I'll  tak' 
a  seat  for  a  meenit.  Mysie  has  just  gone  doon  the 
road  a  step  or  two  wi'  the  lassie  Ritchie  frae  the 
cottages." 

She  seated  herself  primly  on  a  chair  and  said: 

"I  think  ye  should  pit  in  yer  Life  about  the 
Elders'  Suppers." 

Ann  nodded.  "I  think  so,  Marget.  I  can  just 
recall  them  vaguely.  We  were  all  in  bed  before 
the  elders  actually  came,  but  I  remember  the  prep- 
aration, and  how  deeply  I  envied  you  and  Ellie 
Robbie  staying  up,  little  dreaming,  poor  babe,  how 
in  after  years  I  would  envy  the  children  who  get 
away  to  bed  before  the  party  begins." 

"They  were  terrifying  occasions  to  me,"  said  her 
mother.  "Elders  in  the  mass  are  difficult  to  cope 
with.     When  they  arrived  they  were  shown  into 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER       99 

the  study,  and  when  the  business  part  of  the  proceed- 
ings was  over  they  trooped  into  the  dining-room  for 
supper.  To  keep  the  ball  of  conversation  going,  to 
compel  them  to  talk  and  save  the  party  from  being 
a  dismal  failure  was  my  job,  and  it  was  no  light  task. 
They  were  the  best  of  men,  our  Kirkcaple  elders, 
but  they  let  every  subject  drop  like  a  hot  potato. 
It  was  from  occasions  like  that  I  learned  to  talk 
'even  on,'  as  they  say.  I  simply  dared  not  let  a 
silence  fall,  for,  from  bitter  experience,  I  knew  that 
if  I  did  and  caught  your  father's  eye  we  would  be 
sure  to  laugh  and  bring  disgrace  on  ourselves." 

"Don't  I  know*?"  said  her  daughter.  "Will  you 
ever  forget  that  night  in  Glasgow,  when  we  invited 
your  class  to  an  evening  party,  and  they  all  arrived 
in  a  body  and  in  dead  silence  seated  themselves 
round  the  room,  and  none  of  us  could  think  of  a  sin- 
gle word  to  say,  and  in  an  agony  we  sat,  becoming 
every  moment  more  petrified,  and  my  tongue  got  so 
stiff  I  felt  that  if  I  spoke  it  would  break  off,  and 
Father  suddenly  broke  the  awful  silence  with  'Quite 
so,'  delivered  in  a  high,  meaningless  voice,  and  we 
simply  fell  on  each  other  helpless  with  laughter*?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed  at  the  recollection.  "Once 
you  let  a  silence  fall,"  she  said,  "it's  hopeless. 
Nothing  seems  important  enough  to  break  it  with. 
.  .  .  To  go  back  to  the  Elders'  Suppers — we  always 
had  the  same  menu.  Hot  roast  beef,  hot  beef-steak 
pie,  with  vegetables,  then  plum-pudding  and  apple- 


100  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

tart,  and  coffee.  The  oldest  elder,  Charles  Mitchell 
was  his  name,  sat  on  my  right  hand,  and  the  next 
eldest,  Henry  Petrie,  sat  on  my  left.  Charles  Mit- 
chell was  so  deaf  that  any  attempts  to  converse  were 
thrown  away  on  him.  Henry  Petrie  was  a  man  of 
most  melancholy  countenance,  and  absolutely  de- 
void of  light  table-talk.  He  was  sad,  and  said 
nothing,  and  might  as  well  have  been  a  post.  One 
night,  having  tried  him  on  every  subject  with  no 
success,  I  watched  him  being  helped  to  vegetables, 
and  said,  in  desperation,  Totatoes  are  good  this 
year,  don't  you  think?'  He  turned  on  me  his 
mournful  eyes,  his  knife  suspended  on  its  way  to  his 
mouth,  and  said.  They'll  no'  stand  a  boil.'  " 

"D'ye  mind,"  said  Marget,  "thon  awfu'  nicht 
when  the  pie  cowpit  on  the  gravel  ?  We  were  gettin' 
it  covered  at  Wilson's  the  baker's,  for  they  made 
uncommon  guid  pastry,  an'  it  didna  come  till  the 
verra  last  meenit.  I  was  oot  lookin'  for  the  laddie 
at  the  gate,  an'  when  he  came  I  took  it  frae  him  in 
a  hurry,  an',  eh,  mercy!  if  the  whole  hypothic  didna 
slidder  oot  o'  ma  hand  on  to  the  grund.  I  let  oot  a 
yell  an'  Ellie  came  runnin'  oot,  and  syne  she  brocht 
a  lamp,  an'  we  fund  that  the  pastry  wasna  muckle 
the  waur,  but  the  meat  an'  the  gravy  was  a'  amang 
the  gravel.  What  could  we  do  but  juist  scoop  up 
wi'  a  spoon  what  we  could  get — meat,  chuckie- 
stanes  an'  a' — an'  into  the  hoose  wi'  it.  I  can  tell 
ye  I  handit  roond  the  plates  gey  feared  that  nicht. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHHTK     loj! 

I  tried  ma  best  to  get  them  to  choose 'thfe'guid  cie'an 
roast  beef,  but  there  was  nae  takkers.  Juist  pie, 
pie,  pie,  one  after  another  until  I  was  fair  provokit. 
Every  meenit  I  expectit  to  hear  their  teeth  gang 
crunch  on  a  stane.  I  can  tell  ye  I  was  glad  when 
I  got  their  plates  whuppit  awa'  frae  them,  an'  the 
puddens  plankit  doon.  It  was  a  guid  thing  appen- 
dicitis wasna  invented  then,  or  they  wad  a'  ha'  been 
lying  wi'  it,  for  an  orange  pip's  a  fule  to  a  chuckie- 
stane." 

"Ay,  Marget,"  said  her  mistress,  "we  had  many 
a  fright.  As  old  Mrs.  Melville  used  to  say,  Tolk 
gets  awfu'  frichts  in  this  warld.'  Well,  well  I" 
Mrs.  Douglas  sighed  as  was  her  way.  "We  had 
many  a  successful  party,  too." 

"Folk,"  said  Marget  complacently,  "likit  fine  to 
come  to  oor  hoose.  They  aye  got  a  graund  feed  an' 
a  guid  lauch  forbye.  The  maister  wasna  mebbe 
verra  divertin'  in  company,  being  naitral  quiet,  but 
you  were  a  great  hand  at  the  crackin',  Mem." 

Mrs.  Douglas  modestly  waved  away  the  compli- 
ment, while  Ann  said,  "You  must  have  had  some 
very  smart  suppers,  for  I  have  a  distinct  recollection 
of  eating  ratafia  biscuits  and  spun  sugar  from  a 
trifle  one  morning  after  a  party." 

"The  trifle  evenings  were  few  and  far  between," 
said  her  mother;  "but  we  had  many  a  cosy  little 
party  among  our  neighbours." 

Marget  again  broke  in.     "No'  to  mention  a'  the 


102  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

folk  that  juist  drappit  in.  Oor  hcx)se  was  a  fair 
thro-gate  for  folk.  A'  the  ministers  that  lived  a  bit 
away  kent  whaur  to  come  to  in  Kirkcaple  for  their 
tea.  Ye'll  mind,  Mem,  that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Dewar 
were  never  muckle  away.  When  Mr.  Dewar  walkit 
in  f rae  Buckie  and  fund  naebody  in,  he  wad  say  to 
me,  I'll  be  back  for  my  tea,  Marget.  Isn't  this 
baking-day*?'  "  (Marget  adopted  a  loud,  aifected 
tone  when  imitating  anyone;  this  she  called  "speak- 
ing proper.")  "Then  Mistress  Dewar  wad  come 
hoppin'  in — 'deed  she  was  often  in  afore  I  got  to  the 
door,  for  I  wad  mebbe  be  dressin'  when  the  bell  rang. 
I  wad  hae  to  put  on  my  wrapper  again,  an'  there  she 
wad  be  sittin'  on  a  chair  in  the  lobby,  knittin'  awa' 
like  mad.  'Always  busy,  you  see,  Marget,'  she 
would  say ;  1  belong  to  the  save-the-moment  society.' 
Then  she  wad  gie  that  little  lauch  o'  hers.  Sic  a  wee 
bit  o'  a  thing  she  wis,  mair  like  a  bairn  than  a  mair- 
ret  wumman." 

"Once,"  said  Ann,  "I  went  somewhere  to  spend  a 
day  with  Mrs.  Dewar,  and  coming  home  we  had  to 
wait  awhile  for  a  train.  Mrs.  Dewar,  of  course,  was 
knitting,  and  as  the  light  was  bad  in  the  waiting- 
room  she  calmly  climbed  up  on  the  table  and  stood, 
picking  up  a  stitch,  as  near  to  the  gas-jet  as  shq 
could  get.  She  made  the  oddest  spectacle  with  her 
bonnet  a  little  on  one  side,  as  it  always  was,  her 
little  blunt  face  and  childish  figure.  And  to  make 
matters  worse  she  sang  as  she  knitted : 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     103 

'Did  you  ever  put  a  penny  in  a  missionary  box  ? 
A  penny  that  you  might  have  gone  and  spent  like  other 
folks?* 

It  was  torture  to  a  self-conscious  child  to  hear  the 
giggles  of  the  few  spectators  of  the  scene." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed  softly  as  if  remembering 
something  precious.  "Little  Mrs.  Dewar  cared  who 
laughed  at  her.  That  was  what  made  her  so  un- 
usual and  so  refreshing.  The  queer,  dear,  wee  body ! 
There  was  no  one  I  liked  so  much  to  come  to  the 
house.  She  was  so  companionable  and  so  unfussy. 
If  she  could  only  stay  ten  minutes  she  was  calm 
and  settled  for  that  ten  minutes,  and  then  went.  I 
have  seen  people  who  meant  to  stay  for  hours  keep 
me  restless  and  unhappy  all  the  time  by  their  flut- 
tered look.  Whenever  I  got  tired  of  my  house,  or 
my  work,  or  myself,  I  went  to  Buckie  to  Mrs.  Dewar. 
They  had  a  delightful  old  manse,  with  a  charming 
garden  behind,  but  in  front  it  faced  a  blank  wall. 
Someone  condoled  with  Mrs.  Dewar  on  the  lack  of 
view.  *Tuts,*  she  said,  *  we've  never  time  to  look 
at  a  view.' " 

"Like  old  Mary  Hart  at  Etterick,  when  a  visitor 
said  to  her,  *What  a  lovely  view  you  have!'  'An' 
what  aboot  it^'  was  the  disconcerting  answer.  I 
remember  the  Dewars'  manse.  Mother.  I  once 
stayed  there  for  a  week.  What  a  pity  Mrs.  Dewar 
had  no  children  of  her  own !  She  was  a  wonder  with 
children.     I  was  only  a  tiny  child,  but  she  taught 


104  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

me  so  much,  and  interested  me  in  so  many  different 
things  and  people.  After  breakfast  I  had  to  help 
her  to  'classify'  the  dishes;  put  all  the  spoons  to- 
gether, and  wipe  the  knives  with  soft  paper  and  make 
them  all  ready  to  be  washed.  Then  we  saw  that  the 
salts  and  mustards  were  tidy,  and  the  butter  and 
jam  in  dainty  dishes.  Then  we  would  take  a  bundle 
of  American  papers  to  a  woman  who  had  a  son  in 
the  United  States,  and  on  our  way  home  she  would 
take  me  down  to  the  shore  and  point  out  the  exact 
spot  on  the  rocks  where  she  had  once  found  a  beau- 
tiful coral  comb,  and  where  the  next  day  she  had 
found  a  mermaid  sitting  crying  for  the  loss  of  it. 
It  was  a  long  story,  but  I  know  it  finished  with  the 
grateful  mermaid  giving  a  large  donation  to  the 
Sustentation  Fund!  Mrs.  Dewar  had  an  extraor- 
dinary number  of  relations,  who  all  seemed  to  be 
generals  and  admirals,  and  things  like  that,  and  the 
tales  of  the  Indian  nephews  who  had  come  to  her  as 
babies  were  enthralling  to  me.  They  were  grown  up 
by  that  time,  and,  I  suppose,  on  their  way  to  become 
generals,  too.  There  was  always  something  rather 
military  about  Mrs.  Dewar's  small,  alert  figure. 
'Mustard  to  mutton,'  she  would  say  to  me  at  din- 
ner; 'child,  you  would  be  expelled  from  the  mess.' 
She  was  really  too  funny.  When  Mr.  Dewar  would 
say,  'My  dear,  have  you  seen  my  spectacles'?'  she 
would  reply,  'Seek  and  ye  shall  find,  not  speak  and 
ye  shall  find.'    And  if  the  servants  worried  her  she 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     105 

walked  about  saying  the  hymn  beginning,  'Calm  me, 
O  God,  and  keep  me  calm/  " 

"I  likit  Mrs.  Dewar,"  said  Marget;  "she  had 
queer  ways,  but  she  was  a  leddy.  She  was  yin  o' 
the  Keiths  o'  Rathnay — rale  gentry.  Eh,  Mem, 
d'ye  mind  the  black  that  was  preachin'  for  Maister 
Dewar,  an'  they  couldna  keep  him  in  the  hoose,  for 
there  was  illness,  and  he  cam'  to  us^    Eh,  I  say  I" 

"Poor  man!  I  remember  your  face,  Marget, 
when  I  met  you  on  the  stairs  the  morning  he  left. 
You  were  holding  some  towels  away  from  you  and 
you  said,  I'm  no  verra  sure  aboot  that  black's 
towels.'  " 

"Neither  I  wis,"  said  Marget;  "I'm  aye  feared  the 
black  comes  off." 


CHAPTER   X 

MOTHER,"  said  Ann  one  evening,  "do  you 
realise  that  we  are  not  getting  on  at  all 
well  with  your  Life^  Marge t  has  developed  this 
passion  for  coming  in  and  recalling  absurd  things — 
last  night  she  wasted  the  whole  evening  with  the 
tale  of  her  grandfather's  encounter  with  a  bull ;  racy, 
I  admit,  but  not  relevant,  and  the  night  before  she 
set  me  recalling  mad  escapades  of  our  childhood, 
and  I  didn't  write  a  word.  Where  we  are,  I  don't 
know,  but  there  are  only  three  of  us  born — Mark 
and  me  and  Robbie.  Jim  has  got  to  be  worked  in 
somewhere — and  Rosamund.  We  were  all  at  Et- 
terick  recovering  from  whooping-cough  when  Jim 
was  born,  so  I  don't  remember  much  about  him,  but 
Rosamund's  coming  was  a  wonderful  event.  She 
was  my  birthday  present  when  I  was  eight." 

"In  some  ways  Jim  was  the  nicest  of  the  babies," 
Mrs.  Douglas  said.  "He  was  so  pretty  and  sweet- 
tempered — quite  a  show  child.  Whenever  we  said, 
'Sing,  Jim,'  he  dropped  on  to  the  floor  and  began 
'Lord,  a  little  band  and  lowly,'  and  he  was  no  age 
at  all." 

Ann  laughed  a  sceptical  laugh.  "He  ceased  at  an 
early  age  his  efforts  to  entertain;  he  has  no  use  for 

I06 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     107 

company  now.  I  suppose  it  might  be  a  reaction  from 
his  precocious  childhood.  But  he  still  has  the  good 
nature." 

"Indeed  he  has,"  said  Jim's  mother  fervently. 
"The  Fife  people  had  a  saying  'bom  for  a  blessing/ 
and  Jim  has  been  that.  Rosamund" — she  paused  for 
a  moment,  then  continued — "Rosamund  was  the 
most  lovely  child  I  ever  saw.  No,  it  wasn't  be- 
cause I  was  her  mother,  unprejudiced  people  said  the 
same.  I  think,  perhaps,  it  was  the  happiest  time  in 
my  life,  those  weeks  after  Rosamund  came.  Not 
that  I  hadn't  always  been  happy,  but  the  years  be- 
fore had  been  rather  a  melee.  Now  I  had  found  my 
feet,  more  or  less,  and  church  work  and  housekeep- 
ing and  baby  rearing  no  longer  appalled  me.  It  was 
in  March  she  was  bom.  We  had  got  all  the  spring 
cleaning  done  well  beforehand,  and  the  Deacons' 
Court  had  papered  and  painted  the  stairs  and  lob- 
bies, and  we  had  afforded  ourselves  new  stair  and 
landing  carpets,  and  the  house  was  as  fresh  as  it's 
possible  for  a  house  to  be.  I  lay  there  with  my  baby» 
so  utterly  contented,  listening  to  the  voices  of  you 
and  the  boys  playing  in  the  garden  in  the  spring 
sunlight,  with  pleasant  thoughts  going  through  my 
mind  about  my  healthy,  happy  children  and  a 
smooth  running  church,  and  thanking  God  for  the 
best  man  that  ever  woman  had.  And  all  the  kind 
people  came  flocking  to  see  the  new  baby.  Mrs. 
Dewar  came  with  a  dainty  frock  made  by  herself 


io8  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

and  an  armful  of  books  and  magazines.  'These  are 
George's  choosing,'  she  said,  'and  he  says  you  will 
enjoy  them  all.  I  think  myself  they  look  rather 
dull,  so  I've  brought  you  one  of  Annie  Swan's — she's 
capital  for  a  confinement.'  And  Mrs.  Peat  sat  by 
the  fire  with  Rosamund  on  her  knee  and  said,  'Eh, 
my  dear,  she's  a  beauty,'  and  blessed  her.  And  you 
children  came  running  in  with  celandines  from  the 
Den,  and  grubby  treasures  which  you  tried  to  thrust 
into  the  baby's  tiny  hand — I  often  look  back  on 
those  days.  It  seems  to  me  that  my  cup  of  happi- 
ness must  have  been  lipping  over.  Rosamund  grew 
like  a  flower.  There  was  always  something  special 
about  her,  and  we  felt  it  from  the  first.  It  wasn't 
only  her  beauty,  it  was  something  fine,  aloof.  You 
remember  her,  Ann^" 

"Yes,  I  remember  her.  Mother.  She  was  always 
different,  even  at  the  beginning  she  wasn't  red  and 
puckered  and  squirming  like  most  babies,  but  faintly 
pink  like  a  rose.  Father  worshipped  her.  Of 
course,  you  know  that  you  made  far  more  of  her 
than  of  any  of  the  rest  of  us,  and  we  were  glad  and 
willing  that  it  should  be  so.  We  were  never  rough 
with  her.  She  never  lived  the  tumbled  puppy-like 
life  that  I  lived  as  a  child." 

Mrs.  Douglas  nodded.    Presently  she  said: 
"You  had  a  happy  childhood,  Ann^" 
"Hadn't  we  just?    No  children  ever  had  a  hap- 
pier; we  were  so  free.    When  I  see  children  drag- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     109 

ging  along  dreary  daily  walks  with  nurses,  I  do 
pity  them.  We  hated  being  taken  walks  by  EUie 
Robbie,  and  generally  ran  away.  We  used  to  meet 
the  Johnstons  with  their  Ellen,  and  then  we  big  ones 
dashed  off  together  on  business  of  our  own,  leaving 
the  poor  nurses  tethered  to  the  prams.  We  were 
marauders  of  the  worst  type.  Having  always  a 
great  hunger  for  sweets  and  being  always  destitute 
of  money,  we  had  to  devise  schemes  for  getting 
them.  In  Nether  Street  there  stood  a  little  sweetie 
shop  owned  by  one  Archibald  Forbes,  a  good-na- 
tured man  who  had  once  (in  an  evil  moment  for 
himself)  given  us  a  few  sweeties  for  nothing.  With 
the  awful  pertinacity  of  children  we  went  back  con- 
tinually in  the  hope  that  he  might  do  it  again! 
(What  you  and  Father  would  have  thought  if  you 
had  seen  us,  I  know  not!)  Sometimes  he  ordered 
us  away,  but,  when  in  a  more  forthcoming  mood,  he 
would  make  us  say  recitations  to  him,  and  then 
reward  us.  He  must  have  been  a  very  patient  man, 
Mr.  Archibald  Forbes,  for  I  can  see  him,  his  spec- 
tacles on  the  end  of  his  nose,  and  his  bushy  eyebrows 
pulled  down,  standing  behind  his  counter,  listening 
without  a  movement  to  Mark  relentlessly  getting 
through  'The  scene  was  changed' — you  know  that 
thing  about  Mary  Queen  of  Scots?" 

"Indeed  I  do.  If  Mark  was  asked  to  recite  when 
Mrs.  Goskirk  was  present,  and  she  heard  him  be- 
gin, The  scene  was  changed,'  she  gave  a  resigned 


no  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

sigh  and  took  up  her  knitting;  and  there  was  an- 
other about  Henry  of  Navarre  that  was  almost  as 
bad.  The  things  you  did  were  short  and  harmless." 
''Oh,  quite,"  said  Ann.  "There  was  one  about  a 
little  girl  called  Fanny,  a  child  for  whom  we  had  a 
deep  distaste.  She  had  a  dream  about  being  in 
heaven,  I  remember: 

*I  thought  to  see  Papa's  estate 
But  oh!  'twas  far  too  small,  Mamma; 
The  whole  wide  world  was  not  so  big 
As  William's  cricket  ball,  Mamma.* 

And  she  finished: 

'Your  pretty  Fanny  woke,  Mamma, 
And  lo!  'twas  but  a  dream.' 

We  thought  the  said  Fanny  was  an  insufferably 
sidey  child,  first  of  all  for  mentioning  'Papa's  es- 
tate,' then  for  saying  'And  lo  I'  and,  worst  of  all,  for 
alluding  to  herself  as  'pretty  Fanny' — that  was 
beyond  pardon.  Talking  about  money,  someone 
once  gave  me  a  sixpence,  which  I  took,  contrary  to 
rule — we  weren't  allowed  to  take  money.  Feeling 
guilty,  I  ran  into  a  little  shop  in  the  Watery  Wynd, 
a  fish  shop  that  sold  fruit,  and  demanded  sixpenny- 
worth  of  pears.  Ellie  Robbie  was  hard  behind,  so, 
with  great  presence  of  mind,  I  said,  'Give  me  one 
just  now  and  I'll  get  the  rest  another  time.'  That 
sixpennyworth  of  pears  was  a  regular  widow's  cruse 
to  me.    For  weeks  I  called  nearly  every  day  at  that 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     iii 

shop  to  demand  a  pear  due  to  me,  until  they  said  if 
I  came  again  they  would  tell  my  father  I  We  can't 
have  had  any  decent  pride  about  us,  for  I  don't  think 
we  minded  being  snubbed.  When  we  ran  away  from 
Ellie  Robbie  the  harbour  was  generally  our  destin- 
ation— a  fascinating  place  where  Norwegian  sailors 
strolled  about  in  a  friendly  way  and  could  some- 
times be  persuaded  to  let  us  go  on  board  their  ships, 
where  they  gave  us  hot  coffee  out  of  gaily  painted 
bowls.  The  harbour  was  the  only  romantic  thing 
in  Kirkcaple.  Time  meant  nothing  to  us  in  those 
days,  and,  so  far  as  we  were  concerned,  the  King 
still  sat  in  Dunfermline  town  calling  for  a  'skeely 
skipper'  to  sail  his  ship  to  'Norroway  ower  the  f  aem' ; 
and  many  an  hour  we  stood  looking  out  to  sea  and 
watching  for  the  gallant  ship  'that  never  mair  cam' 
hame.'  Next  to  the  harbour  we  loved  the  coal-pit, 
and  felt  that  we  were  indeed  greatly  blessed  to  have 
one  so  near  the  house.  There  was  no  romance  about 
a  coal-pit  (except  the  romance  that  brings  in  the 
nine-fifteen) ;  but  there  were  glorious  opportunities 
for  getting  thoroughly  dirty.  We  had  many  friends 
among  the  miners,  and  they  gave  us  rides  on  trolleys, 
and  helped  us  to  make  seesaws,  and  admitted  us  into 
lovely  little  outhouses  containing,  among  other 
treasures,  the  yellow  grease  that  trains  are  greased 
with.  And  there  was  the  Hyacinth  Den  only  a 
stone' s-throw  from  our  own  door,  and  the  bleach- 
field  beyond,  and  beyond  that  again  the  Wild  Wood. 


112  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

And  our  own  Manse  garden  was  not  to  be  despised, 
for  did  it  not  look  into  a  field  owned  by  the  Huttons 
— a  clan  as  wild  and  lawless  as  our  own,  and  many 
a  battle  took  place  between  us.  They  had  a  friend 
known  to  us  as  'Wild  Scott  of  the  Huttons,'  a  truly 
great  and  tireless  fighter,  and  if  he  happened  to  be 
visiting  them  we  never  knew  when  a  head  would 
pop  up  over  the  wall  where  the  big  pear  tree  grew, 
and  challenge  us  to  mortal  combat.  Did  you  hear 
that  Mark  came  across  a  man  in  France,  tremen- 
dously decorated  and  of  high  rank,  who  turned  out  to 
be  our  old  enemy  'Wild  Scott  of  the  Huttons'  ?  Be- 
sides the  permanent  feud  with  the  Huttons,  we  had 
many  small  vendettas  with  boys  from  the  town,  who 
stoned  Mark  on  Sundays  because  they  didn't  like  his 
clothes." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laid  down  her  stocking,  and  said 
in  a  bewildered  tone: 

"I  never  could  understand  why  you  were  so 
pugnacious.  You  were  a  dreadfully  bad  example 
to  the  other  children  in  the  place.  They  say  that 
ministers'  children  are  generally  worse  than  other 
people's — on  the  principle,  I  suppose,  that  'shoe- 
makers' bairns  are  aye  ill  shod,'  but  I  never  saw 
children  more  naturally  bad  than  you  were — well, 
not  bad,  perhaps,  but  wild  and  mischievous  to  a 
degree.  Your  father  sometimes  said  that  no  one 
could  doubt  the  theory  of  original  sin  after  seeing 
our  family.     Alison  sometimes  comes  to  me  in  her 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     113 

wheedling  way  and  says,  'Gran,  do  tell  me  about 
your  bad  children,'  and  I  have  to  tell  her  of  the  time 
when  you  celebrated  the  Queen's  birthday  at  the 
coal-pit  by  setting  fire  to  a  lot  of  valuable  wood  and 
nearly  burned  the  whole  place,  and  the  day  when 
we  lost  you  and  found  you  all  in  the  Panny  Pond — 
literally  'in'  it  you  were,  for  you  had  made  a  raft  and 
sunk  with  it  into  the  soft,  black  mud." 

"Yes,"  said  Ann,  "I  was  always  sorry  after  that 
for  'The  Girl  who  trod  on  a  Loaf,'  for  I  knew  the 
dreadfulness  of  sinking  down,  down." 

"I  think  my  dear  Robbie  was  the  worst  of  you  all. 
You  others  showed  faint  signs  of  improvement,  but 
he  never  deviated  into  good  behaviour.  He  was 
what  is  known  in  Priorsford  as  'a  notorious  ill  cal- 
lant,'  and  in  Fife  as  'an  awfu'  steerin'  bairn.'  When 
I  went  away  for  a  day  or  two  I  had  always  to  take 
him  with  me,  for  I  knew  if  I  left  him  at  home  it 
would  be  sheer  'battleation,'  and  yet  he  had  the 
tenderest  heart  among  you,  and  Rosamund  said, 
'Robbie's  the  one  who  has  never  once  been  cross  to 
me.'  I  remember  the  first  time  I  took  him  to  church. 
He  disliked  the  look  of  the  woman  who  sat  in  front, 
a  prim  lady,  and  he  suddenly  tilted  her  bonnet  over 
her  eyes.  Then  he  shouted  to  a  well-behaved  child 
in  the  next  seat,  'Bad  boy  make  a  face  at  me,'  and 
before  I  could  stop  him,  hurled  his  shoe  at  him; 
and  he  announced  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  'Mark  and 
-\nn's  away  to  Etterick,  but  I  don't  care  a  wee,  wee 


114  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

button/  and  had  then  to  be  removed.  'Wheep  him,' 
Mrs.  Beaton  used  to  counsel ;  but  Mrs.  Peat  always 
said  'Robbie's  a  fine  laddie.'  " 

Ann  nodded.  ''So  he  was,  always.  Though  he 
was  so  turbulent  and  noisy  he  was  so  uncunning  you 
couldn't  but  think  nobly  of  the  soul.  Mark  and  I 
thought  of  the  mischievous  things  to  do,  and  Robbie 
threw  himself  into  them  so  whole-heartedly  that 
generally  he  was  the  one  caught  and  blamed.  The 
rest  of  us  were  better  at  wriggling  out  of  things. 
Father  was  never  hard  on  us  unless  we  cheated  or 
told  lies.  He  wasn't  even  angry  when  the  police- 
man complained  of  us — do  you  remember  the  one, 
an  elder  in  our  church,  who  said  in  despair  to  his 
wife,  I'll  hae  to  jail  thae  bairns  and  leave  the  kirk'*? 
One  of  the  few  times  I  ever  saw  Father  really  angry 
was  when  he  was  holding  a  class  for  young  com- 
municants, and  we  crept  into  the  cubby-hole  under 
the  stairs,  where  the  meter  was,  and  turned  off  the 
gas.  Father  emerged  from  the  study  like  a  lion,  and 
caught  poor  Jim,  who  had  loitered.  The  rest  of  us 
had  gained  the  attics  and  were  in  hiding.  It  must 
have  been  a  great  day  for  the  young  communicants." 

"Ann!  It  was  a  shocking  thing  to  do;  it  would 
have  roused  the  mildest-mannered  man." 

"Father  was  very  good-natured,"  said  Ann, 
kneeling  on  the  rug  to  put  a  log  on  the  fire;  "but  it 
was  never  safe  to  presume  too  much  on  his  mildness. 
He  was  subject  to  sudden  and  incomprehensible 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     115 

rages.  One  day  I  innocently  remarked  that  some- 
body had  a  'polly'  arm.  I  didn't  know  that  I  meant 
a  paralysed  arm;  I  was  only  repeating  what  I  had 
heard  others  say,  but  Father  grabbed  me  suddenly 
and  said,  *You  wretched  child !  Where  do  you  pick 
up  those  abominable  expressions^  Go  to  the  nurs- 
ery.' I  went  weeping,  feeling  bitterly  the  injustice 
with  which  I  had  been  treated.  But  for  every  once 
that  Father  made  us  cry,  a  hundred  times  he  filled 
our  mouths  with  laughter.  All  our  best  games  were 
invented  by  him.  Whenever  he  put  his  head  round 
the  nursery  door,  we  knew  we  were  going  to  have 
good  times.  There  was  a  glorious  game  about  India, 
in  which  the  nursery  became  a  trackless  jungle,  and 
Father  was  an  elephant  with  a  pair  of  bellows  for 
a  trunk.  Sometimes  on  a  Sunday  night,  as  a  great 
treat,  we  were  allowed  to  play  Bible  games.  Then 
we  would  march  round  and  round  the  nursery  table, 
blowing  lustily  on  trumpets  to  cause  the  walls  of 
Jericho  to  fall,  or  Robbie  as  Jeremiah  would  be  let 
down  by  Mark  and  me  into  the  pit  (which  was  the 
back  of  the  old  sofa),  with  'clouts  under  his  arm- 
pits'; or,  again,  he  and  Mark  lay  prostrate  on  the 
sofa  (now  the  flat  roof  of  an  Eastern  house),  while 
I,  as  Rahab,  covered  them  with  flax.  I  have  the 
nicest  recollections  of  winter  evenings  in  the  study, 
with  the  red  curtains  drawn,  and  you  sitting  mend- 
ing, when  we  lay  on  the  hearth-rug,  and  Father  read 
to  us  of  Bruce,  and  Wallace,  and  that  lonely,  lovely 


ii6  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

lady,  Mary  of  Scotland;  but  my  most  cherished 
memory  is  of  a  December  day  in  Glasgow.  It  was  a 
yellow  fog  that  seemed  to  press  down  on  us  and 
choke  us.  You  were  out  when  we  came  in  from  our 
walk,  the  fire  wasn't  good,  and  everything  seemed 
unspeakably  dreary.  We  were  quarrelling  among 
ourselves  and  feeling  altogether  wretched,  when  the 
door  opened  and  Father  looked  in  on  us.  *Alone, 
folkies?'  he  said.  'Where's  your  mother?'  We 
told  him  you  were  out  and  that  we  had  nothing  to 
do,  and  that  everything  was  beastly.  He  laughed 
and  went  away,  and  came  back  presently  with  a 
book.  It  was  The  Queen's  Wake^  and  for  the  first 
time  we  heard  of  'bonnie  Kilmeny'  who  went  away 
to  Fairyland.  We  forgot  the  fog,  we  forgot  our 
grievances;  we  were  carried  away  with  Kilmeny. 
Then  Father  got  a  ballad-book,  and  that  was  even 
better,  for  the  clash  of  armies  was  ever  music  in  our 
ears.  We  sprawled  over  him  in  our  excitement  as 
he  read  how  'in  the  gryming  of  a  new-fa'en  snaw' 
Jamie  Telfer  of  the  fair  Dodhead  carried  the  'fraye' 
to  Branksome  ha'.  Our  tea  was  brought  in,  but  the 
pile  of  bread-and-butter  was  hardly  diminished,  for 
Father  read  on,  sometimes  laughing  aloud  in  his  de- 
light at  what  he  read,  sometimes  stopping  for  a 
moment  to  drink  some  tea,  but  his  eyes  never  leav- 
ing the  printed  page.  How  could  we  eat  when  we 
were  hearing  for  the  first  time  of  Johnnie  Arm- 
strong going  out  to  meet  his  King  in  all  good  faith, 


i 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     117 

only  to  find  that  death  was  to  be  his  portion?  We 
howled  like  angry  wolves  when  Father  read: 

*To  seek  het  water  beneath  cauld  ice. 
Surely  it  is  a  great  foUe — 
I  have  asked  grace  at  a  graceless  face. 
But  there  is  nane  for  my  men  and  me.' 

When  you  came  in,  we  only  looked  at  you  vaguely, 
and  said,  'Go  on.  Father,  go  on,'  and  he  explained, 
'These  benighted  children  have  never  heard  the 
Border  Ballad^  Nell,'  and  then  you  sat  down  and 
listened  too.  .  .  .  D'you  remember  people  in  Glas- 
gow, who  owned  big  restaurants  all  over  the  place — 
Webster,  I  think,  was  the  name,  and  there  was  a 
fat  only  son  who  sometimes  came  in  to  play  with  us? 
I  don't  know  what  Mr.  Webster  was  like  in  his  home 
life,  but  that  fat  boy  said  to  me  very  feelingly, 
'Yours  is  a  jolly  kind  of  father  to  have'  It  was 
generous  of  him,  for  only  that  morning  he  had 
taunted  me  with  the  fact  that  my  father  played  a 
penny  whistle,  and  I,  deeply  affronted,  had  replied 
with  a  tasteful  reference  to  the  restaurants,  'Well, 
anyway,  he  doesn't  sell  tuppenny  pies  like  your  fa- 
ther does.'  " 

"Oh,  that  penny  whistle!"  said  Mrs.  Douglas, 
with  a  laugh  and  a  sigh.  "He  made  wonderful 
music  on  it.  There  was  always  something  of  the 
Pied  Piper  about  your  father.  Down  in  the  district 
the  children  used  to  come  up  and  pull  at  his  coat 
and  look  up  in  his  face;  they  had  no  fear  of  him; 


ii8  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

and  whenever  he  entered  the  hall  on  Band  of  Hope 
nights  the  place  was  in  an  uproar  with  yells  for  a 
story.  He  would  get  up  on  the  little  platform  and, 
leaning  over  the  table,  he  would  tell  them  'Jock  and 
his  Mother,'  or  The  Bannock  that  went  to  see  the 
World,'  or  'Maya' — fine  stories,  but  not  a  moral  to 
one  of  them." 

"That  was  the  best  of  Father's  stories:  they  never 
had  morals,"  said  Ann.  "The  real  secret  of  his 
charm  was  that  at  heart  he  was  as  much  a  child  as 
any  of  them.  Once  I  was  down  in  the  district  with 
him,  and  we  saw  a  very  dirty  little  boy  sitting  on  a 
doorstep.  He  greeted  Father  with  a  wide  grin,  and 
beckoned  to  him  with  a  grimy  forefinger.  Father 
went  obediently,  and  very  slowly  and  mysteriously 
the  little  fellow  drew  from  his  ragged  pocket  a  hand- 
ful of  marbles  (very  chipped  and  dirty  ones)  and 
said,  Thae's  whit  ye  ca'  bool^  and  Father,  bending 
over  the  small  figure,  replied,  'So  they  are,  sonny,  so 
they  are !' 

"Yes,  the  fat  boy  was  right:  he  was  a  jolly  kind 
of  father  to  have !" 


w 


► 


CHAPTER  XI 

HEN  Rosamund  was  six  months  old 
we  left  Kirkcaple.  It  was  a  great  up- 
rooting. You  don't  live  thirteen  years  in  a  place  in 
close  touch  with  the  people  without  becoming  deeply 
attached  both  to  the  place  and  people — and  in  the 
last  year  of  our  stay  at  Kirkcaple  we  had  a  wonder- 
ful experience.  There  was  a  great  awakening  of  in- 
terest in  spiritual  things — a  revival — and  we  saw 
many  enter  into  life.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Douglas  stopped  abruptly  and  regarded  her 
daughter. 

"Ann,"  she  said,  "why  do  you  begin  to  look 
abashed  and  miserable  if  I  mention  the  word  re- 
vival*? Does  conversion  seem  to  you  an  improper 
subject*?" 

Ann  screwed  her  face  uncomfortably.  "Oh,  I 
don't  know,  but  I  confess  I  do  dislike  to  hear  people 
talking  glibly  about  that  sort  of  thing.  It  some- 
how seems  rather  indecent.  You  didn't  realise,  you 
and  Father,  how  miserable  it  was  for  us  children 
going  to  so  many  evangelistic  meetings.  We  liked 
shouting  Sankey's  hymns,  and  the  addresses  were  all 
right,  but  oh  I  those  'after-meetings,'  when  we  sat 

sick  with  fright,  watching  earnest  young  men  work- 

119 


120   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

ing  their  way  down  the  church  to  speak  personally  to 
us.  How  could  we  say  we  were  on  the  road  to 
heaven?  And  we  were  too  honest — at  least  the  boys 
were  too  honest — simply  to  say  Yes,  when  asked  if 
we  were  saved.  I  shall  never  think  it  right  or 
proper  that  any  casual  person  should  leap  on  one 
and  ask  questions  about  one's  soul.  I  should  object 
to  anyone,  other  than  a  doctor  or  intimate  friend, 
asking  me  questions  about  my  bodily  health,  and 
why  should  I  be  less  select  about  my  immortal  soul  ? 
And  it  seemed  to  us  so  dreadful  that  they  should 
count  the  converts.  I  remember  with  what  ab- 
horrence we  once  heard  Mrs.  Macfarlane  tell  how 
she  and  her  husband  had  both  talked  to  a  young  man 
about  his  soul.  'And  when  we  had  shown  him  the 
light' — you  remember  the  sort  of  simper  she  gave — - 
*and  he  had  gone  on  his  way  rejoicing,  I  said  to  Mr. 
Macfarlane,  "George  dear,  is  it  your  soul  or  mine?"  ' 
In  other  words,  'My  bird,  sir.'  I  suppose  she  was  out 
for  stars  in  her  crown,  but  I  would  rather  have  none 
than  cadge  for  them  like  that." 

*'0h,  Ann,"  cried  her  mother,  "you  don't  know 
what  you  are  saying.  It  hurts  me  to  hear  you  talk 
in  that  flippant  way  about " 

"Mother,  you  needn't  make  a  mournful  face  at 
me."  Ann's  face  was  flushed,  and  she  looked  very 
much  in  earnest.  "You've  simply  no  idea  how  diffi- 
cult it  is  for  a  minister's  family  to  be  anything  but 
mere  formalists.    You  see,  we  hear  so  much  about  it 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     12 1 

all.  From  our  infancy  we  are  familiar  with  all  the 
shibboleths,  until  they  almost  cease  to  have  any 
meaning.  I  used  to  think  as  a  child  that  it  was  most 
unfairly  easy  for  the  heathen.  I  pictured  myself 
hearing  for  the  very  first  time  the  story  of  Jesus 
Christ,  and  I  thought  with  what  gratitude  and  love 
I  would  have  fallen  on  my  knees  to  thank  Him.  .  .  . 
As  it  was,  we  knew  the  message  so  well  that  our  at- 
tention was  chiefly  directed  to  the  messengers,  and 
you  must  admit.  Mother,  we  had  some  very  queer 
ones.  You  can't  have  forgotten  the  big,  red-haired 
evangelist,  as  rough  as  the  heather,  who  told  us  a 
story  of  a  pump  being  *off  the  fang,'  and  finished 
remarkably  with  'Ah,  my  friends,  God's  pump's 
never  off  the  fang.'  I  think  it  was  the  same  man 
who  said  we  were  just  like  faggots,  'fit  for  the  burn- 
ing.' Oh,  but  do  you  remember  the  man  in  Glas- 
gow who  illustrated  the  shortness  of  life  with  a 
story  about  'Gran'papaw'  who  .  .  ." 

''Annr 

Mrs.  Douglas  had  finished  her  daily  reading  and 
sat  with  the  pile  of  devotional  books  on  her  knee, 
eyeing  her  daughter  with  a  mixture  of  disapproval 
and  unwilling  amusement.  "Ann,  you  turn  every- 
thing into  ridicule." 

Ann  protested.  "There's  no  ridicule  about  it.  It 
is  a  very  good  serious  tale.  'Gran'papaw  he  gae 
two  .  .  .'" 

Again  her  mother  interrupted  her. 


122  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"I'm  sure  your  father  would  be  sorry  to  hear  you 
laughing  at  evangelists.  He  revelled  in  evangelistic 
work." 

Ann  gave  a  squeal  of  rage.  "Mother!  D'you 
know  what  sort  of  picture  of  Father  you  would  give 
to  anyone  who  didn't  know  him'?  Someone  with  a 
smug  face  and  a  soapy  manner,  and  a  way  of  shak- 
ing hands  as  if  he  had  a  poached  egg  in  the  palm. 
Could  there  be  anything  less  like  my  father"?  There 
was  nothing  unctuous  about  him,  nothing  of  the 
professional  religionist.  He  was  like  a  Raebum 
portrait  to  look  at  .  .  . 

*A  face  filled  with  a  fine  old-fashioned  grace, 
Fresh-coloured,  frank * 

and  he  never  thought  that  because  he  was  virtuous 
there  should  be  no  more  cakes  and  ale.  He  was  a 
minister  simply  because  the  great  fact  of  his  life 
was  Christ,  and  he  desired  above  everything  to  bring 
men  to  Him.  I  never  read  of  Mr.  Standfast  but 
I  think  of  Father,  for  he,  too,  loved  to  hear  his  Lord 
spoken  of,  and  coveted  to  set  his  feet  in  his  Master's 
footprints.  ..." 

Ann  stopped  and  looked  in  a  shamefaced  way  at 
her  mother. 

"And  now  I'm  preaching!  It's  in  my  blood — 
well,  you  were  begirming  to  tell  me  about  the  revival 
in  Kirkcaple  when  I  started  to  blaspheme.  Please 
go  on." 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     123 

''Well,  you  may  laugh  at  evangelists  .  .  ." 

'Who's  laughing'?"  cried  Ann. 

Her  mother  went  on  calmly.  "But  I  assure  you 
that  was  a  wonderful  time  in  Kirkcaple.  Night 
after  night  the  church  was  crowded,  and  girls  and 
young  men  went  as  blithely  to  those  meetings  as  ever 
they  went  to  a  dance.  You  may  talk  as  you  like  of 
'emotionalism'  and  'the  excitement  of  the  moment,' 
but  remember,  this  all  happened  nearly  thirty  years 
ago,  and  the  young  people  who  decided  for  Christ 
then  are  the  chief  support  of  the  Church  to-day.  I 
am  very  certain  they  have  never  regretted  staying 
to  the  after-meeting  and  throwing  in  their  lot  with 
Christ.  How  easy  the  church  work  was  that  winter ! 
The  Wednesday  prayer-meeting  overflowing  from 
the  hall  into  the  church,  money  forthcoming  for 
everything — you  may  know  conversion  is  real  when 
it  touches  the  pocket.  We  had  a  series  of  special 
meetings  more  or  less  all  through  that  winter,  and, 
of  course,  all  the  speakers  stayed  with  us.  Marget 
never  grumbled  at  the  extra  work.  One  night,  at  a 
meeting  where  testimonies  were  asked  for,  to  my 
utter  amazement  she  got  up  and  stammered  out  a 
few  words.  Long  afterwards,  in  Glasgow,  when 
she  lost  her  temper  about  something,  she  said,  'Eh, 
I  say,  ril  need  to  be  speakin'  in  the  kirk  again.'  She 
had  evidently  found  it  beneficial.  We  had  all  sorts 
of  ministers  and  evangelists  staying  with  us,  some 
delightful,  others  rather  difficult.    One  week-end  the 


124  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

great  Dr.  Bentley  came  to  preach,  a  very  godly  but  a 
very  austere  man.  Your  father  was  preaching  some- 
where, and  I  had  to  bear  the  brunt  of  him  alone. 
Immediately  he  had  had  tea  he  suggested  that  we 
should  have  a  little  Bible-reading  and  prayer.  It 
was  a  dreadful  ordeal  for  me,  for  he  kept  asking  mc 
what  passage  I  should  like  read,  and  my  mind  went 
blank  and  I  couldn't  think  of  any!  Finally  I  man- 
aged to  slip  out  of  the  room,  leaving  him  to  rest, 
and  not  noticing  that  Robbie  was  playing  quietly 
behind  the  sofa.  Shortly  after  that  we  heard  an 
uproar  in  the  study,  Dr.  Bentley's  voice  in  trumpet 
notes  and  yells  of  rage  from  Robbie.  With  Ellie 
Robbie  at  my  heels,  I  rushed  to  the  rescue.  .  .  .  Dr. 
Bentley  met  me  with  the  words :  'I  have  had  deal- 
ings with  your  son.'  It  turned  out  that,  seeing  the 
old  man  sitting  alone,  Robbie  had  gone  to  the  book- 
case, pulled  out  as  large  a  volume  as  he  could  man- 
age, and  carried  it  to  him.  Dr.  Bentley  told  him  to 
put  the  book  back  on  the  shelf  and  bring  no  more. 
Robbie  brought  another  and  another,  and  Dr.  Bent- 
ley whipped  him.  Full  of  fury  at  the  results  of  his 
well-meant  efforts  to  entertain  him,  Robbie  kicked 
Dr.  Bentley — kicked  the  great  Dr.  Bentley — and 
was  carried  out  of  the  room  in  Ellie  Robbie's  arms 
quite  unrepentant,  shouting  as  he  went,  'Abomin- 
able gentleman !'  " 

Ann  laughed  with  much  enjoyment.    "It  isn't  one 
of  the  duties  of  a  guest  to  beat  his  host's  children, 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     125 

but  he  met  his  match  in  Robbie.  You  must  have  had 
a  dreadful  week-end,  poor  Mother  I" 

"Oh,  dreadful  I  Everything  went  wrong.  Dr. 
Bentley  told  me  that  he  didn't  like  a  fire  in  his 
bedroom,  but  that  he  liked  a  fire  in  his  bed.  This, 
he  explained  very  solemnly,  meant  two  hot-water 
cans  and  six  pairs  of  blankets.  Marget  put  in  one 
hot- water  can  (a  'pig'  one)  and  had  gone  to  fill  an 
india-rubber  one,  when  Ellie  Robbie,  wishful  to 
help,  and  unaware  of  one  'pig'  in  the  bed,  slapped 
in  another.  They  met,  and  each  halved  neatly  in 
two.  The  bed  was  a  sea,  and  we  were  looking  de- 
spairingly at  it  when  Dr.  Bentley  appeared  in  the 
doorway  and  announced  that  he  would  like  to  retire 
for  the  night  I  .  .  .  Some  time  afterwards  Dr. 
Bentley  was  again  in  the  neighbourhood  and  called, 
but  found  no  one  at  home.  Marget,  telling  us  about 
his  visit,  said,  'It  was  thon  auld  man,  I  dinna  mind 
his  name;  the  yin  the  mistress  is  fear't  for.'  " 

"With  reason,  I  think,"  said  Aim.  "What  an  orgy 
of  meetings  you  must  have  had  that  winter !" 

"Yes,  but  I  can't  remember  that  there  were  any 
bad  effects,  or  that  we  sank  into  indifference  when 
the  stimulus  of  the  meetings  was  removed.  Rather 
we  went  on  resolved  to  do  better  than  we  had  ever 
done,  for  the  Lord  had  done  great  things  for  us. 
.  .  .  Then  came  the  call  to  Glasgow,  and  it  was 
very  difficult  to  decide  what  was  for  the  best.  We 
didn't  love  cities,  and  we  had  no  friends  in  the 


126  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

West ;  on  the  other  hand,  we  had  to  think  about  the 
education  of  you  children.  Your  father  was  going 
on  for  forty,  and  he  felt,  if  he  ever  meant  to  take 
a  call,  now  was  the  time.  You  children  were  de- 
lighted. Any  change  seems  a  change  for  the  better 
to  a  child;  you  never  gave  a  thought  to  the  big, 
sunny  garden  you  were  leaving,  or  the  Den,  or  the 
familiar  friendly  house,  or  the  kind  people.  The 
day  your  father  and  I  went  to  Glasgow  to  look  for 
a  house  you  all  stood  on  the  doorstep  and  shouted 
after  us,  'Be  sure  and  get  one  near  a  coal-pit.'  " 

"Yes/'  Ann  said;  "the  thought  of  a  flitting  en- 
chanted us,  and  we  began  at  once  to  pack.  Where 
was  it  Robbie  had  inflammation  of  the  lungs*?  Be- 
fore we  went  to  Glasgow,  wasn't  it*?" 

"The  year  before — in  spring.  He  had  got  hot 
playing  football  and  stood  in  the  east  wind.  He 
was  very  ill,  poor  darling,  and  for  long  he  needed 
great  care.  I  got  to  know  my  wild  boy  in  a  different 
way  in  those  days  and  nights  of  weakness." 

Ann  left  her  writing-table  and  sat  on  the  fender- 
stool.  She  pushed  the  logs  together  and  made  them 
blaze,  and,  reaching  over  to  the  big  basket  that  stood 
by  the  fireplace,  she  threw  on  log  after  log  until 
the  whole  room  was  filled  with  the  dancing  light. 

"Now,  that's  something  like  a  fire,"  she  said.  "A 
dull  fire  makes  one  feel  so  despairing.  .  .  .  Robbie 
was  so  very  proud  of  having  had  an  illness;  he  al- 
ways called  it  'my  inflammation,'  and  when  he  broke 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     127 

his  arm  his  conceit  knew  no  bounds.  Fm  afraid  I 
broke  it  for  him  by  falling  off  the  seesaw  on  to  the 
top  of  him.  We  didn't  know  what  had  happened, 
but  we  saw  that  his  arm  looked  very  queer,  .and 
Mark  and  I  brought  him  home  and  helped  him  to 
take  off  his  boots,  and  were  quite  unusually  atten- 
tive to  him.  He  didn't  say  a  word  about  it  hurting 
until  he  heard  that  it  was  broken,  when  he  began  to 
yell  at  once,  and  said,  'Will  I  die? — will  I  die?' 
Reassured  on  that  point,  he  was  very  pleased  about 
his  broken  arm." 

"Two  days  later,"  said  Robbie's  mother,  "he  es- 
caped from  the  nursery  and  was  found  on  the  rafters 
of  an  unfinished  house  (how  he  managed  to  climb 
with  his  arm  in  splints,  I  know  not)  singing  I'm  the 
Kmg  of  the  Castle.'  " 

Ann  laughed  softly.  "He  never  let  us  forget  his 
achievements,  dear  lamb.  If  we  quarrelled  about  the 
possession  of  anything,  Robbie  was  sure  to  say, 
'Give  it  to  me,  for  I've  had  the  inflammation.' 
Mark  made  a  poem  about  him,  which  ran : 

*And  if  in  any  battle  I  come  to  any  harm, 

Why,  I've  had  the  inflammation,  I've  had  a  broken  arm.' 

It  must  have  been  no  light  task  to  remove  us  all 
from  Kirkcaple  to  Glasgow." 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head.  "A  terrible  under- 
taking. But  we  were  young  and  strong.  Mrs.  Peat 
came  up  one  day  and  found  me  crying  as  I  packed. 
'Eh,  my  dear,'  she  said,  'you're  vexed  to  go,  and 


128  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

rm  glad  to  see  you're  vexed  to  leave  us  all,  but 
you're  taking  all  your  own  with  you.  You  don't 
know  what  it  means  to  leave  a  grave.  .  .  .'  Every- 
body made  farewell  parties  for  us,  and  we  departed 
in  a  shower  of  presents  and  good  wishes.  That  was 
nearly  thirty  years  ago,  and  only  the  other  day  I  met 
one  of  our  Kirkcaple  people  in  Edinburgh,  and  she 
said  to  me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  'Hardly  a  day 
passes  in  our  house  without  a  mention  of  your  name, 
and  never  a  Sabbath  comes  but  we  say,  "If  only  we 
could  hear  Mr.  Douglas'  voice  again  I"  Who  says 
the  ministry  is  not  a  repaying  job*?'  Well,  we  got 
to  Glasgow — I  think  you  children  all  went  to  Et- 
terick,  didn't  you*?" 

"Only  the  boys,"  said  Ann.  "I  went  straight  to 
Glasgow  with  you  and  Baby  Rosamund.  It  was  a 
great  experience  for  me.  I  boasted  about  it  for  long. 
I  was  allowed  to  attend  the  Induction  Soiree,  and 
heard  you  and  Father  praised  by  everyone.  It  was 
my  first  experience  of  Glasgow  humour,  and  very 
funny  I  thought  it.  I  remember  one  old  elder  who 
spoke  told  us  of  what  a  fine  speech  he  had  made  the 
night  before  in  his  bed.  'My,'  he  said,  beaming 
round  on  the  company,  'what  grand  speeches  ye  can 
make  in  yer  bed!'  but  it  turned  out  he  had  forgotten 
it  on  the  platform.  I  thought  the  Glasgow  accent  fas- 
cinating, and  I  liked  to  be  told  that  I  was  a  'good  wee 
Miss.'  I  began  to  like  Glasgow  people  that  night,  and 
I've  gone  on  liking  them  better  and  better  ever  since." 


CHAPTER   XII 

AND  now,"  said  Ann,  "we're  done  with  Kirk- 
caple  and  must  tackle  Glasgow.  And  the 
Tatler  is  sitting  on  my  MS.,  and  that  won't  improve 
its  appearance.  Odd  the  passion  that  cat  has  for 
paper!  Perhaps  in  a  previous  existence  it  was  an 
editor.  If  the  soul  of  my  grandam  might  haply  in- 
habit a  bird,  the  soul  of  an  editor — now  he's  done 
it  I  .  .  ."  She  flew  to  rescue  the  sheets  that  the  Tat- 
ler had  scattered  on  the  floor,  while  her  mother  put 
on  large  tortoise-shell  spectacles  and  knelt  down  to 
help. 

"Don't  you  think,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said,  when  the 
sheets  had  been  rearranged  in  order,  "that  you'd 
better  read  me  what  you've  written?" 

Arm  shook  her  head.     "I  think  not.     It's  very 

majestical  and  not  quite  true.  You  see,  if  you're 

writing  a  Life^  it's  no  good  making  a  bald  narrative 

of  it.     One  has  to  polish  it  up  a  bit  for  the  sake  of 

posterity.     I'm  making  you  a  very  noble  character, 

I  assure  you.     As  old  Mrs,  Buchanan  said  to  me, 

after  seeing  me  in  some  tableaux  vivants^  'My,  you 

were  lovely.     I  didna  ken  ye.'     The  children  will 

be  proud  to  think  you  were  their  grandmother." 

129 


130  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

Mrs.  Douglas  turned  to  take  up  her  stocking,  with 
a  bored  look. 

"I  wonder,"  she  said,  "that  you  can  be  bothered 
talking  so  much  nonsense." 

"I  wonder,  too,"  said  Ann,  "with  the  world  in 
the  state  it  is  in.  But  I  do  agree,  there  is  nothing 
so  trying  as  a  facetious  person  I  I  wish  I  hadn't  such 
high  spirits.  No  wonder,  Mother,  that  you  are  such 
a  depressed  wee  bodj:  to  have  had  a  husband  and 
family  who  were  always  in  uproarious  spirits  was 
enough  to  darken  anybody's  outlook  on  life.  The 
first  thing  I  remember  about  Glasgow  is  that  you 
had  a  curly  yellow  coat  and  a  sort  of  terra-cotta 
bonnet." 

Mrs.  Douglas'  face  lit  up  with  a  smile  that  made 
her  look  almost  girlish.  "That  coat !  I  do  remem- 
ber it  well.  It  was  'old  gold'  trimmed  with  plush 
of  the  same  shade.  My  father  bought  it  for  me. 
I  met  him  one  day  in  Princes  Street,  and  I  must  have 
looked  very  shabby,  for  he  looked  me  up  and  down 
and  said,  'Nell,  €urely  the  Sustentation  Fund  is  very 
low,'  and  he  took  me  into  Jenner's,  and  got  me  that 
coat  and  bonnet.  He  got  you  a  coat,  too,  and  a  de- 
licious little  astrakhan  cap  like  a  Cossack's.  You 
were  the  prettiest  thing  in  it,  for  your  hair  curled 
out  under  it  like  pure  gold." 

"I  must  have  been  a  picturesque  child,"  said  Ann 
complacently,  "for  several  times,  you  remember, 
artists  asked  me  to  sit  for  them."    Then  she  laughed. 


f 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     131 

"But  I  needn't  boast  about  that,  for  my  pride  once 
got  a  severe  fall.  One  day,  at  Etterick,  we  came 
on  an  artist  (he  turned  out  to  be  someone  quite 
well  known)  sketching  up  the  bumside.  I  oblig- 
ingly posed  myself  in  the  foreground,  and — he  gave 
me  sixpence  to  go  away.    And  I  took  itT 

Mrs.  Douglas  smiled  at  the  reminiscence,  but  her 
thoughts  were  still  with  the  "old  gold  coat." 

"It  always  pays  to  get  a  good  thing.  That  coat 
wore  and  wore  until  everybody  got  tired  of  seeing 
me  wear  it,  and  it  never  really  got  very  shabby — 
the  bonnet,  too." 

"I  suppose  you  would  be  about  thirty,"  Ann  said. 
"You  said  to  us  walking  down  to  church  one  day 
that  you  were  thirty,  and  then  you  said  you  would 
need  to  get  a  new  bonnet.  I  looked  at  you  and 
thought  to  myself:  'I  shan't  say  it,  but  I'm  quite 
sure  it  isn't  worth  while  for  Mother  to  get  a  new 
bonnet;  she  can't  live  much  longer.'  I  was  shocked 
to  hear  that  you  had  attained  to  such  a  great  age, 
for  I  thought  at  thirty  one  was  just  toppling  into  the 
grave.  Wasn't  Glasgow  a  great  change  from  Kirk- 
caple?  *East  is  East  and  West  is  West,  and  never 
the  twain  shall  meet.'  " 

"Oh,  we  hadn't  much  time  to  worry  over  East 
and  West;  we  had  our  work  to  do.  We  were  very 
fortunate  in  getting  a  suitable  house  in  a  nice  dis- 
trict. We  might  have  been  miles  from  a  city  in 
that  road  of  decent  grey  houses,  each  in  its  own  quiet 


132  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

garden.  And  the  gardens  all  opened  into  an  avenue 
of  beautiful  trees  that  had  once  been  the  entrance 
to  the  big  house  of  the  district.  We  couldn't  have 
been  more  happily  situated,  and  it  was  a  comfortable 
house  with  good-sized  rooms  and — what  your  fa- 
ther specially  prized — a  well-placed  staircase  with 
shallow  steps.  It  also  contained  what  we  had  never 
had  before,  a  basement  flat;  but  it  wasn't  as  bad 
as  it  sounded,  for  the  house  was  built  on  a  slope, 
and  the  kitchen,  though  downstairs,  was  on  a  level 
with  the  garden." 

"We  children  didn't  mind  the  basement,"  said 
Ann;  "it  was  a  joy  to  us,  full  of  funny  corners,  ex- 
cellent for  hide-and-seek.  One  door  had  the  legend 
Dark  Room  painted  on  it,  and  was  an  endless  source 
of  speculation.  Could  the  former  tenant  have  been 
a  Nihilist'?  or  a  murderer *?  In  the  bright  hours  of 
the  morning  we  liked  to  dally  with  those  thoughts, 
but  when  the  shadows  lengthened  we  told  each  other 
that  he  was  only  a  man  who  tried  to  develop  his  own 
negatives.  We  never  felt  in  the  least  cabined  or 
confined  in  Glasgow.  It  was  a  joke  against  me  for 
long  that  when  we  first  arrived  I  reproved  Mark 
and  Robbie  for  walking  on  the  garden  wall,  saying, 
*We  must  be  very  genteel  now  that  we  live  in  Glas- 
gow.' " 

"You  didn't  live  up  to  that  counsel  of  perfection, 
my  dear.  Anything  less  genteel  than  your  be- 
haviour !    One  of  the  first  things  you  and  Mark  did 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     133 

was  to  attend  a  wedding  in  the  avenue — and  when 
I  say  'attend,'  I  mean  you  stood  outside  the  gate  of 
the  house  with  a  lot  of  other  abandoned  children 
and  shouted,  'Hard  up!'  when  the  bride  and  bride- 
groom left  without  scattering  pennies.  Jeanie  Tod 
nearly  wept  with  shame  when  she  told  me  of  it." 

"I  remember  Jeanie  Tod,"  said  Ann.  "She  was 
small,  but  very  determined.  She  had  a  brother  a 
sailor,  and  used  to  let  me  read  his  letters.  One  of 
them  described  the  writer  riding  in  a  rickshaw,  and 
finished:  *By  Jingo,  dear  sister,  you  should  have 
seen  your  Brother  that  Day.'  ...  It  must  have 
been  difficult  for  you.  Mother,  to  leave  friendly 
Kirkcaple  and  go  to  a  great  city  where  you  knew 
almost  no  one.    Weren't  you  lonely  at  first?" 

"Never  for  a  moment;  we  just  seemed  to  tumble 
in  among  friends." 

"The  church  people,  you  mean*?" 

"Oh  no — well,  of  course,  they  were  friends — ^very 
dear  friends — but  you  need  outside  friends,  too.  I 
found  three  very  good  ones  waiting  for  me  in  Glas- 
gow." 

"One  was  Mrs.  Burnett !"  said  Ann. 

"Yes.  Mrs.  Burnett  was  my  first  friend.  The 
day  we  arrived  in  the  avenue — we  were  next-door 
neighbours — was  the  funeral  day  of  her  eldest 
daughter.  With  most  women  that  would  have  been 
an  excuse  not  to  come  near  us  for  months,  but  she 
came  almost  at  once.    She  said  that  it  made  a  link 


134  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

between  us,  and  that,  in  a  way,  our  coming  helped 
a  little  to  fill  the  blank  left  by  the  dear  daughter's 
death.  Her  kindness  and  interest  were  very  grateful 
to  me,  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land,  or,  as  Marget 
put  it,  '3.  coo  on  an  unco  loan.*  It  was  a  great 
pleasure  to  run  in  for  an  hour  to  the  Burnetts';  it 
was  such  a  big,  comfortable,  perfectly  kept  house 
(the  servants  had  been  with  them  for  twenty  and 
thirty  years,  and  had  grown  into  Mrs.  Burnett's 
dainty  ways),  and  there  was  always  a  welcome 
awaiting  one  at  any  time." 

"They  had  a  splendid  garden,"  said  Ann,  "with  a 
swing  and  all  manner  of  amusing  things;  and  I 
think  they  really  liked  having  children  to  tea.  I 
remember  their  Hallow-e'en  parties!" 

"Mrs.  Burnett  looked  like  an  abbess,"  Mrs.  Doug- 
las said.  "She  always  wore  a  soft  black  dress — 
cashmere  or  silk — and  a  tiny  white  lace  shawl  turned 
back  over  her  white  hair.  The  style  of  dress  suited 
her  perfectly,  for  she  was  very  tall  and  graceful,  and 
glided  rather  than  walked.  I  admired  her  very 
much,  being  so  far  from  dignified  myself,  and  I  used 
to  wonder  how  she  kept  so  perfectly  tidy  and  un- 
ruffled when  I  always  looked  as  if  I  had  been  in  the 
heart  of  a  whirlwind." 

"Oh,  Mother  I"  laughed  Ann,  "just  look  at  the 
difference  in  the  two  lives!  Mrs.  Burnett  with  her 
family  grown  up,  a  household  running  on  well-oiled 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     135 

wheels,  and  a  serenity  partly  natural  and  partly 
gained  through  long  years'  experience;  you  in  the 
very  forefront  of  the  battle,  with  an  incredibly  wild 
and  wicked  family,  a  church  to  run,  small  means, 
and  not  an  ounce  of  serenity  anywhere  in  your  little 
active  body." 

"Well,  but  now  that  I  have  leisure  Fm  not  any 
more  serene,"  Mrs.  Douglas  complained.  "But  it 
was  comfort  unspeakable  just  to  see  Mrs.  Burnett, 
to  know  that  she  was  near.  We  used  to  think  that 
she  sat  and  wondered  what  she  would  send  us  next, 
she  loved  so  to  give." 

"I  never  smell  a  hyacinth,"  said  Ann,  "but  I  think 
of  Mrs.  Burnett.  She  always  sent  us  the  very  first 
pot  of  hyacinths  that  came  out  in  the  greenhouse." 

Mrs.  Douglas  nodded.  "Mrs.  Burnett  would  like 
to  be  remembered  by  spring  flowers.  She  loved  them 
as  she  loved  all  young  things.  Her  one  little  grand- 
son, Jimmie,  was  the  same  age  as  Davie.  Her  great 
regret  when  she  was  dying  was  that  she  wouldn't 
see  the  two  boys  grow  up.  Ah,  but  if  she  could  have 
known — they  didn't  grow  up  very  far.  Jimmie  was 
killed  at  the  landing  in  Gallipoli,  and  Davie  at 
Arras,  when  they  were  still  only  little  boys." 

"You  have  always  been,  well  off  for  friends. 
Mother,"  Ann  said,  breaking  a  silence.  "In  Inch- 
keld,  in  Kirkcaple,  Glasgow.  It's  because  you  are 
such  a  friendly  person  yourself." 

"Oh,  me!     I  often  feel  myself  a  poor  creature. 


136  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

with  little  to  give  in  return  for  treasure-houses 
opened  to  me." 

Ann  laughed  unbelievingly  and  said,  "Fm  bound 
to  admit  we  have  had  some  wonderful  friends — Miss 
Barbara  Stewart  for  one.  She  was  one  of  your 
three  friends,  wasn't  she*?" 

"Indeed  she  was!  Miss  Barbara — to  say  her 
name  gives  me  a  warm  feeling  at  my  heart." 

"Miss  Barbara,"  Ann  repeated.  "What  a  lot  the 
name  conjures  up!  I  don't  know  anyone  who  made 
more  of  life.  She  might  have  been  a  lonely,  soured 
old  woman,  for  she  was  the  very  last  of  her  family, 
wasn't  she^  but  to  the  great  family  of  the  poor  and 
the  afflicted  she  said,  'You  are  my  brothers  and  my 
sisters.'  I  wonder  how  many  men  in  Glasgow  owe 
their  start  in  life  to  Miss  Barbara *?  I  wonder  how 
many  lonely  women  died  blessing  her  that  it  was 
their  own  and  not  a  workhouse  roof  that  covered 
them  at  the  end^  I  wonder  how  many  betrayed 
souls  sinking  hopelessly  into  hell  had  a  succouring 
hand  held  out  to  them  by  that  sharp-tongued  spin- 
ster? How  did  you  know  Miss  Barbara  so  well? 
She  didn't  belong  to  the  church." 

"Not  in  our  time,  but  all  her  people  had  be- 
longed. Miss  Barbara  had  gone  to  the  other  side 
of  Glasgow,  and  it  was  too  far  for  her  to  come.  She 
always  took  a  great  interest;  but  what  good  work 
was  she  not  interested  in?  She  sat  there  in  her  vast, 
early- Victorian  dining-room,  wrapped  in  innumer- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     137 

able  shawls  and  woolly  coats,  for  she  suspected 
draughts  from  every  quarter,  a  tall  woman,  broadly 
made,  with  a  large,  strong  face.  What  would  I 
not  give  now  to  go  into  that  room  and  see  those 
whimsical,  shrewd,  kind  eyes,  and  feel  the  wealth  o£ 
welcome  in  those  big  soft  hands  as  she  rose  to  greet 
me,  with  shawls  falling  from  her  like  leaves  in  Val- 
lombrosa.  She  generally  received  me  with  abuse. 
*What  d'you  mean  by  coming  out  on  such  a  day? 
You'll  go  home  with  a  chill  and  bother  your  poor 
family  by  lying  in  bed.  Here — see — sit  down  in 
that  chair  and  hold  the  soles  of  your  boots  to  the 
fire,'  all  the  time  doing  things  for  one's  comfort, 
ringing  for  tea  to  be  brought  in,  kneeling  down  to 
make  fresh  toast.  She  hated  to  trouble  anyone;  it 
was  almost  an  obsession  with  her,  the  desire  not  to 
be  a  nuisance.  She  had  a  very  aged  cook,  who  had 
been  in  the  Stewart  family  all  her  life,  and  it  was 
said  that  Miss  Barbara,  herself  nearly  eighty,  got 
up  every  morning  and  carried  tea  to  her  before 
she  would  let  her  rise  to  her  duties." 

"Dear  Miss  Barbara,"  Ann  said,  stroking  the 
Tatler's  smoke-grey  fur,  "she  wasn't  only  good,  she 
was  delightfully  funny.  Her  passion  for  cats! — 
not  for  well-fed,  comfortable  cats,  but  for  poor,  lean, 
homeless  ones.  She  used  to  send  me  into  a  butcher's 
shop  to  buy  a  quarter  of  a  pound  of  mince-collops, 
and  then  down  area  steps  carrying  it  (the  horrid 
stuff  oozing  clammily  through  the  paper)  after  some 


138  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

terrified  animal  that  fled  from  me,  paying  no  atten- 
tion to  my  blandishments.  She  was  utterly  unlike 
the  ordinary  rich  old  woman,  flattered  and  kow- 
towed to  for  her  money  until  she  thinks  she  isn't 
made  of  ordinary  clay.  I  don't  think  Miss  Barbara 
ever  gave  a  thought  to  herself;  she  hadn't  time,  she 
was  so  busy  looking  after  other  people." 

'In  her  youth,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "Miss  Bar- 
bara was  a  great  worker  in  the  slums  of  Glasgow, 
but  when  I  knew  her  she  wasn't  able  for  that,  and 
people  had  to  go  to  her.  The  clergy  waited  on  her 
by  the  dozen,  and  everyone  else  who  wanted  money 
for  good  works,  not  to  speak  of  many  who  were 
mere  cranks  and  charlatans.  Everyone  who  came 
was  admitted,  and  Miss  Barbara  wouldn't  have 
listened  to  a  word  against  any  of  them." 

"No,"  said  Ann;  "she  would  have  said  with  Fal- 
staff,  Tush,  man,  mortal  men,  mortal  men';  or, 
rather,  she  wouldn't,  for  she  had  probably  never 
heard  of  Falstaff,  and  thought  that  anyone  who  could 
read  Shakespeare  for  pleasure  was  eccentric  almost 
to  madness.  If  you  told  her  of  a  book  you  had 
enjoyed,  she  would  say,  Is  it  true*?     No?    Well, 

then *    But  everyone  who  went  to  No.  lo  got 

a  hearing." 

"Everyone  got  a  hearing,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas, 
"and  whatever  else  they  got,  you  may  be  sure  a 
good  tea  was  never  wanting.  Many  a  tired  and 
hungry  voyager  on  life's  ocean  foimd  sanctuary  at 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     139 

No.  10.  You  remember  when  I  had  that  bad 
breakdown,  and  you  were  all  worn  out  with  me, 
how  Miss  Barbara  took  me  to  No.  lo  and  coaxed 
and  scolded  me  back  to  health!  And  I  was  too 
miserably  ill  and  weak  even  to  pretend  gratitude, 
and,  driving  with  her,  I  used  to  envy  all  the  happy 
people  walking  on  their  own  feet,  and  one  day  she 
said  to  me,  with  an  amused  twinkle  in  her  eyes, 
'Ay,  and  you  never  thought  to  pity  the  poor  folk  in 
their  carriages  before.'  " 

"I  think  she  was  funniest  at  Etterick,"  said  Ann. 
"She  kept  regretting  all  the  time  the  street  lamps 
and  pavements,  and  the  sight  of  Tweed  winding  in 
links  through  the  glens  vexed  her  practical  soul. 
'What  a  waste !'  she  said;  'couldn't  it  be  cut  straight 
like  a  canal*?'  Father's  face!  How  Miss  Barbara 
would  have  hated  the  Green  Glen!"  She  jumped 
up  to  open  the  door  for  the  Tatler.  "He's  tired  of 
us.  He  wants  to  try  Marget  and  Mysie.  Who  was 
your  third  great  friend,  Mother  *?  You  had  so 
many,  Fm  interested  to  know  which  you  considered 
your  greatest." 

"Mrs.  Lang." 

"Oh,  of  course — Mrs.  Lang.  She's  been  dead 
for  a  long  time  now." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sighed.  "Nearly  all  my  friends  are 
dead." 

"Because,"  said  Aim,  "you  always  liked  old 
people  best,  and  made  your  friends  among  women 


140  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

much  older  than  yourself.  And  now  you  mourn 
and  say  your  friends  are  nearly  all  gone,  and  talk 
about  the  elect  being  gathered  in — but,  elect  or  not, 
people  are  apt  to  be  gathered  in  if  they  are  over 
eighty." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sighed  more  deeply,  and,  ignoring 
her  daughter's  bracing  remarks,  said,  "I  can't  care 
for  new  friends  as  I  cared  for  the  old;  they  can't 
go  back  with  me.  I'm  not  interested  in  their  talk. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Lang  was  a  very  good  friend  to  me  at  my 
busiest  time.  What  a  capable  woman  she  was. 
There  was  nothing  she  couldn't  do  with  her  hands. 
When  the  boys  went  to  Oxford  she  practically  made 
their  outfits,  and  made  them  beautifully.  She  used 
to  say  that  it  was  a  kindness  to  let  her  help,  for 
she  had  had  such  a  busy  life,  she  simply  couldn't 
rest.    I  know  now  what  she  meant." 

"I  remember  Mrs.  Lang  very  well,"  Ann  said — 
"a  stately  woman  who  rocked  a  little  when  she 
walked.  She  had  crinkly  white  hair  parted  in  the 
middle,  and  keen,  blue  eyes  in  a  fresh-coloured  face. 
I  always  think  of  her  as  dressed  in  a  seal-skin  mantle 
trimmed  with  skunk  and  a  Mary  Stuart  bonnet." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laid  down  her  stocking.  "Yes.  I 
remember  her  best  like  that.  I  did  like  to  see  her 
come  rocking  in  at  the  gate,  though  sometimes  I 
was  a  little  afraid  of  her.  Your  father  used  to  say 
she  was  a  typical  Scotswoman  of  the  old  school — 
a  type  that  has  almost  disappeared.     There  wasn't 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     141 

a  trace  of  sickly  sentiment  about  her.  She  was  a 
stem,  God-fearing  woman,  with  a  strong  brain  and 
a  big  heart  and  an  unbending  will.  She  lived  to 
be  nearly  ninety,  and  to  the  end  her  mind  was  as 
clear  as  a  bell.  In  the  last  letter  she  wrote  to  me : 
*I  go  out  for  a  walk  every  day,  no  matter  what  the 
weather  is,  and  I  am  twice  in  church  every  Sab- 
bath.' " 

"Didn't  Mrs.  Lang  come  from  Fife?"  Ann  asked. 
"I  know  there  was  always  an  east  windy  tang  about 
her!  She  had  nothing  of  the  soft,  couthy  Glasgow 
manner.  I  was  really  very  scared  of  her.  When 
she  discovered  me  hopelessly  ignorant  (as  she  was 
always  doing)  about  something  she  thought  I  should 
have  known  all  about,  like  jam-making,  she  had  a 
way  of  saying:  *You  amuse  me  very  much,'  which 
was  utterly  crushing.  And  she  was  very  much  given 
to  contradicting  people  flat,  generally  prefacing  her 
remarks  with  'You  will  pardon  meT  delivered  like 
a  sledge-hammer.  Well,  it's  too  late  to  write  any- 
thing to-night.  Marget  and  Mysie  will  be  in  for 
prayers  in  a  few  minutes,  and  I've  an  interesting 
book  to  finish.  To-morrow  I  shall  add  another  stone 
to  the  noble  pile  I  am  raising  to  you — but,  no,  it 
can't  be  to-morrow.  To-morrow  I  go  to  Birkshaw 
for  two  nights.  Mother,  why  did  I  say  I  would  go*? 
I  can't  bear  to  leave  Dreams  for  two  whole  nights." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

FOR  two  days  it  was  as  if  an  enchantment  had 
been  thrown  over  Dreams,  so  great  a  quiet 
held  the  house.  Marget  and  Mysie  went  about 
their  work  hardly  speaking  at  all;  Mrs.  Douglas 
sat  alone  with  her  stocking  and  her  books  of  devo- 
tion; the  Tatler  slept  for  hours  together  on  chairs 
that  he  knew  well  were  prohibited ;  the  very  fire  did 
not  crackle,  but  lay  in  a  deep  glow;  the  wind  was 
hushed,  and  moved  softly  round  the  white-faced 
house  among  the  heather. 

The  enchantment  lifted  when  the  pony-cart  bring- 
ing Ann  back  was  seen  coming  up  the  hill.  Mrs. 
Douglas  at  once  began  to  pile  the  fire  high  with 
logs  and  coal ;  the  Tatler,  as  if  aware  of  an  impend- 
ing upheaval,  awoke,  stretched  himself,  and  stalked 
out  of  the  room,  while  in  the  kitchen  Mysie  flew  to 
make  hot  toast  and  Marget  gave  a  final  polish  to 
the  already  glittering  silver. 

"Hear  till  her,"  Marget  said  to  Mysie,  with  a 
broad  grin  on  her  face,  as  Ann's  voice  was  heard 
greeting  her  mother. 

"She  was  aye  like  that;  aye  lauchin',  an'  aye  fu' 

o'  impudence,  the  cratur!     It's  like  a  death  in  the 

hoose  when  she's  oot  o't.  Awa'  ben  wi'  the  tea,  Mysie 

142 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     143 

woman;  she'll  want  it  afore  she  tak's  off  her  things." 
"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  some  time  later,  "it 
is  good  to  have  you  back." 

She  had  got  her  "reading"  over  early,  the  pile  of 
books  was  put  away,  and  she  was  ready  to  listen  to 
Aim's  news. 

"After  two  days !"  said  Ann,  "you  remind  me  of 
Davie  when  he  was  once  in  bed  with  a  bilious  turn 
till  limch-time.  The  moment  he  got  up  he  rushed 
to  the  window  and  said,  with  a  gasp  of  thankful- 
ness, Tt's  good  to  see  the  green  grass  again.'  You 
must  have  enjoyed  the  rest  from  my  long  tongue. 
I  needn't  ask  if  anyone  called." 

"Mr.  Sharp  came  to  tea  with  me  yesterday." 

"Did  he*?  Good  man!  You've  got  a  very  atten- 
tive pastor,  Motherkin." 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Douglas  agreed.  "I  must  say  I'm 
fond  of  that  young  man,  though  he  does  read  his 
sermons  and  his  theology  isn't  as  sound  as  I  would 
like.  We  had  such  a  nice  talk,  and  he  told  me  all 
about  his  people.  They  are  evidently  not  at  all 
well  off,  and  he  says  they  had  a  great  business  getting 
the  Manse  furnished.  But  everything  is  paid  for. 
His  father  and  mother  are  coming  to  visit  him  about 
New  Year  time.  We  must  try  in  every  way  we  can 
to  make  their  visit  enjoyable.  He  is  so  young,  and 
there  is  something  very  innocent  about  him — he 
reminds  me  a  little  of  Davie." 


144  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"And  were  you  favoured  with  much  of  Marget*s 
conversation^"  Ann  asked. 

"Oh  yes.  She  came  in  and  out;  but  Marget  is 
very  dull  when  you  are  away.  She  used  to  say,  when 
you  were  all  at  Etterick  and  the  house  was  peaceful 
and  the  work  light,  'It's  a  queer  thing:  I  like  faur 
better  when  oor  bairns  are  a'  at  hame.'  Well,  and 
was  Birkshaw  nice?    Tell  me  all  about  it." 

Ann  had  seated  herself  on  her  favourite  stool  in 
front  of  the  fire,  and  she  now  turned  round  facing 
her  mother,  and  nodded  happily. 

"Birkshaw  was  very  nice,  and  the  Miss  Scotts 
are  exactly  the  kind  of  hostesses  I  thought  they 
would  be.  When  I  saw  my  room  I  was  sure  of  it. 
Some  people's  spare  rooms  are  just  free-coups  full 
of  pictures  that  nobody  else  will  allow  in  their 
rooms,  chairs  that  are  too  hard  for  anything  but  a 
guest  to  sit  on,  books  that  no  one  can  read.  And 
in  these  spare  rooms  you  generally  find  a  corner  of 
the  wardrobe  reserved  for  somebody's  parasols,  and 
a  fur  coat  in  camphor  occupies  the  only  really  good 
drawer.  My  room  at  Birkshaw  was  a  treasure. 
There  was  a  delicious  old  four-post  bed,  with  a  little 
vallance  of  chintz  round  the  top,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  furniture  in  keeping.  A  nosegay  on  the  dressing- 
table,  a  comfortable  couch  drawn  up  to  a  blazing 
fire,  a  table  with  a  pile  of  most  readable-looking 
books,  and  absolutely  unencumbered  drawers.  There 
were  only  three  other  people  staying  in  the  house — 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     145 

a  man  and  his  daughter — Barnes  was  the  name — 
English.  Mr.  Barnes  was  very  sprightly,  and  looked 
about  fifty,  and  so,  oddly  enough,  did  his  daughter. 
Either  she  looked  very  old  for  her  age  or  her  father 
looked  much  too  young  for  his.  She  was  a  dull  little 
lady  with  protruding  eyes  and  unbecoming  clothes, 
and  she  appeared  to  me  rather  to  have  given  up  the 
unequal  contest.  I  have  noticed — haven't  you? — 
that  very  vivacious  parents  have  often  depressed 
offspring,  and  vice  versa,  Mr.  Barnes,  though  Eng- 
lish, was  a  great  lover  of  Scotland,  and  an  ardent 
Jacobite.  He  confused  me  a  good  deal  by  talking 
about  Charles  iii.  I  found  him  very  interesting,  but 
I  had  the  feeling  that  he  thought  poorly  of  my  intel- 
ligence. And,  of  course,"  Ann  finished  cheerfully, 
"I  am  almost  entirely  illiterate." 

Mrs.  Douglas  looked  mildly  indignant.  "Ann, 
when  I  think  of  the  money  spent  on  your  educa- 
tion  " 

"Oh,  you  spent  money  all  right,  but  no  one  could 
make  me  learn  when  I  didn't  want  to.  I  don't  know 
whether  I  was  naturally  stupid,  or  whether  it  was 
sheer  wickedness,  but,  anyway,  it  doesn't  matter 
now,  except  that  intelligent  people  are  bored  with 
me  sometimes " 

"Who  was  the  other  person  staying  at  Birkshaw? 
Didn't  you  say  there  were  three'?" 

"Yes,  a  bachelor  nephew  of  the  Miss  Scotts' — 
Mr.  Philip  Scott." 


146  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"Young?" 

Ann  screwed  her  face.  "Youngish.  Forty  or 
thereabouts — forty-five,  I  should  think.  Oh  yes, 
because  he  told  me  he  was  thirty-eight  when  the 
war  came.  He  looked  quite  young  because  he  was 
slim,  and  he  wasn't  bald;  rather  a  good-looking 
man." 

"Did  you  like  him?    Was  he  nice?" 

Ann  laughed  as  if  at  the  remembrance  of  some- 
thing pleasant. 

"Oh  yes,  I  liked  him.  He  was  very  companion- 
able, and  it  turned  out  we  had  a  good  many  friends 
in  common.  The  Miss  Scotts  are  extraordinarily 
good  company.  There  is  no  need  to  make  conversa- 
tion at  Birkshaw;  the  talk  was  so  entertaining  that 
we  sat  an  unconscionable  time  over  our  meals.  And 
they  never  worry  you  to  do  things.  If  you  prefer 
an  arm-chair  by  the  fire  and  a  book — well  and  good. 
You  know  how  I  hate  visiting,  as  a  rule,  but  I  really 
did  enjoy  my  two  nights  away,  and  I  learned  a  lot 
about  gardening." 

"Did  you  wear  your  new  frock?"  Mrs.  Douglas 
asked. 

"Oh  yes.  You  were  quite  right  to  advise  me  to 
take  it.  You  never  know  about  people  now.  Some 
have  never  got  over  war-habits  and  still  wear  sort 
of  half-and-half  things  in  the  evening — rather  tired- 
looking  afternoon  dresses  or  jumpers;  but  the  Miss 
Scotts  came  down  charming  in  lace  and  jewels  and 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     147 

beautifully  done  hair.  I  do  like  that.  Heaviest  of 
tweeds  and  thick  boots  in  the  daytime,  but  in  the 
evening  perfect  in  every  detail — so  I  was  glad  I 
had  a  pretty  fresh  frock  to  do  them  honour." 

Aim  stretched  out  her  feet  to  the  blazing  fire. 
"But  it's  fine  to  be  back  in  this  dear  room,  wearing 
slippers  not  quite  in  their  first  youth,  and  a  dress 
that  no  amount  of  lounging  will  hurt.  Birkshaw 
doesn't  come  up  to  Dreams,  though  it  is  several  cen- 
turies older,  and  at  least  three  times  bigger  and  full 
of  priceless  treasures  in  the  way  of  pictures  and  fur- 
niture and  books " 

Ann  stopped  to  laugh  at  her  own  absurdity,  and 
her  mother  said,  "You're  like  your  father,  child.  He 
never  saw  anything  to  equal  his  own  house.  He 
didn't  know  the  meaning  of  envy " 

"Ah,  but  I'm  not  like  that.  Envy!  I'm  some- 
tirries  chock-full  of  it " 

The  door  opened  and  Marget  came  in.  She  was 
primed  with  an  excuse  for  her  appearance,  but  Ann 
didn't  give  her  time  to  make  it. 

"Come  away,  Marget,  and  hear  all  about  Birk- 
shaw, and  tell  me  what  has  been  happening  since 
I  went  away.  I've  just  been  saying  to  Mother  that 
I'm  very  glad  to  be  back." 

Arm  pulled  forward  a  chair,  which  Marget 
accepted  primly. 

"I  dare  say  ye  are.  We  'gree  fine,  the  fower  o' 
us." 


148  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"And  yet,  Marget,"  said  Ann,  "I  have  just  been 
reading  a  book  by  a  very  clever  woman  in  which  she 
says  that  women  cannot  live  together  with  any 
profit.  They  fester.  That  is  the  ugly  expression 
she  uses." 

Marget  gave  a  disgusted  snort.  "Mebbe  thae 
saft  scented  weemen,  aggravatin'  and  clawin'  at 
each  other  like  cats,  no'  weemen  wi'  self-respect  an' 
wark  to  do.  A'  the  same,  I'm  no'  say  in'  I'll  no'  be 
glad  when  Maister  Jimmie  comes  hame.  I  like  a 
man  aboot  the  hoose.  It's  kin  o'  hertless  work 
cookin'  for  weemen;  hauf  the  time  they're  no'  heedin' 
what  they're  eatin'." 

"Ah,  Marget,"  said  her  mistress,  "it's  not  like 
the  days  when  the  boys  were  all  home  from  school 
and  you  couldn't  make  a  pudding  big  enough." 

Marget  shook  her  head  sadly.  "It  is  not,  Mem," 
she  said,  and  then,  turning  suddenly  to  Ann,  she 
asked,  "Hoo's  the  Life  gettin'  on?" 

Ann  jumped  up  and  went  to  the  writing-table. 
"That  reminds  me  I've  no  business  to  be  sitting 
roasting  my  face  at  the  fire  when  I  haven't  written 
a  word  for  nights." 

She  found  a  notebook  and  pencil  and  came  back 
to  the  fireside.  "The  Moncrieffs  will  be  on  us  before 
we  are  half  finished.  We've  got  to  Glasgow,  Mar- 
get. Tell  me  your  first  impression  of  that  great 
city." 

Marget  sat  forward  with  one  hand  on  each  knee. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     149 

"Eh,  I  thocht  it  was  an  awfu'  place.  D'ye  mind, 
Mem,  thon  day  you  took  me  awa'  into  Argyle  Street 
to  see  the  Toly' —  a  place  mair  like  a  toun  than  a 
shop?    I  was  fair  fear't." 

Mrs.  Douglas,  picking  up  a  stitch,  stopped  to 
laugh. 

"That  was  a  great  day,  Marget.  You  suddenly 
found  yourself  looking  into  a  long  mirror,  and  you 
turned  to  me  and  said,  'Eh,  I  say — there's  a  wum- 
man  awfu'  like  ma  sister.'  " 

"Didn't  you  know  yourself,  Marget*?"  Ann  asked. 

"No'  me.  I  had  never  seen  the  whole  o'  masel' 
afore,  an'  how  was  I  to  ken  I  was  sic  a  queer-lookin' 
body?' 

"I  know,"  said  Ann.  "I've  had  some  shocks  my- 
self." She  turned  to  her  mother.  "I  always  sym- 
pathised with  Trudi  in  The  Benefactress  when  she 
looked  into  a  mirror  and  was  disgusted  to  find  that 
she  wasn't  looking  as  pretty  as  she  felt.  But,  Mar- 
get,  what  else  struck  you  besides  the  size  of  the 
Toly'  and  its  mirrors'?" 

Marget  was  chuckling  to  herself.  "I  aye  mind 
how  affrontit  I  was  in  the  Toly.'  I  wanted  to  buy 
something,  but  the  only  thing  I  could  mind  I  wanted 
was  a  yaird  o'  hat  elastic.  A  young  man,  like  a 
lord,  leaned  over  the  counter  and  says,  'What  can 
I  do  for  you.  Madam*?'  " 

Here  Marget  became  convulsed  with  laughter, 
and  had  to  wipe  her  eyes  before  going  on.     "  'Aw,' 


150  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

says  I,  'a  yaird  o'  hat  elastic,'  an'  says  he,  'One 
penny,  Madam.'  I  thocht  fair  shame  to  see  a  braw 
man  like  that  servin'  me  wi'  hat  elastic.  I  telt  the 
mistress  I  wadna  gang  back  there  till  I  needed  a  new 
goon  or  something  wise-like.  Ay,  there  was  a  heap 
o'  queer  things  in  Glasgae  that  we  hadna  in  Kirk- 
caple,  but  I  likit  it  fine.  We  a'  settled  doon  rale 
comfortable,  an'  a'body  that  cam'  to  Glasgae  frae 
Kirkcaple  cam'  to  oor  kirk,  so  we  never  felt  far 
frae  hame.  Oh,  I  likit  Glasgae  rale  weel  when  once 
I  fund  ma  way  aboot." 

"It's  odd,"  said  Ann,  "to  think  of  Glasgow  as  the 
'Scottish  Oxford'  of  the  seventeenth-century  travel- 
ler. How  pretty  it  must  have  been,  with  gardens 
going  down  to  the  Clyde,  a  college  in  the  High 
Street,  an  old  cathedral  on  a  hill  overlooking  the 
city,  and  with  so  clear  an  air  that  a  mountain 
called  'Ben  Lomond'  could  be  seen  by  the  shop- 
keepers of  King  Street.  Alack-a-day!  the  green 
places  have  been  laid  waste.  .  .  .  Mother,  do  you 
remember  on  winter  nights  as  we  sat  round  the  fire 
how  we  sometimes  used  to  hear  men  calling  'Call-er 
oy-sters"?  That  is  the  most  vivid  recollection  that 
has  remained  with  me  of  those  Glasgow  days — a 
November  evening  with  a  touch  of  the  fog  that 
frost  was  apt  to  bring,  a  clear  fire  burning  in  the 
nursery  grate,  books  and  games  scattered  about,  and 
through  the  misty  stillness  outside  the  cry,  'Call-er 
oy-sters.'    I  used  to  lift  a  corner  of  the  blind  to  look 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     151 

out,  wondering  if  I  would  see  some  wandering  sailor- 
man  with  a  pokeful  of  oysters  on  his  back — ^but  there 
was  nothing,  nothing  but  the  strangely  mournful 
cry." 

"Glasgae  folk,"  said  Marget,  who  had  not  been 
listening,  but  thinking  her  own  thoughts,  "are  awfu' 
easy  to  ken  and  rale  nice,  but  they're  no'  so  hospit- 
able as  they  get  the  name  for  bein'." 

"Why,  Marget,"  cried  Mrs.  Douglas,  astonished, 
"Glasgow  people  are  considered  the  very  essence  of 
hospitality." 

Marget  set  her  mouth  obstinately.  "Weel,  Mem, 
it's  mebbe  as  you  say,  but  I've  sat  whole  nichts  in 
their  hooses  an'  they  never  so  much  as  said  to  me, 
'Collie,  wull  ye  lick^'  When  ye  went  into  a  hoose 
at  Kirkcaple  the  first  thing  they  did  was  to  pit  on 
the  kettle.  Glasgae  folk  made  a  great  fuss  aboot  ye, 
but  they're  no'  great  at  offerin'  ye  meat." 

"This,"  said  Ann,  sharpening  a  pencil,  "is  quite 
a  new  light  on  Glasgow  people.  They  are  accused 
of  many  things,  but  seldom  of  inhospitality." 

"Well,  I  must  say,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "that  I 
missed  in  Glasgow  the  constant  interchange  of  hos- 
pitality that  we  had  in  Kirkcaple.  For  instance, 
when  your  father  exchanged  with  another  minister 
it  was  always  a  question  of  staying  the  week-end; 
and,  if  the  minister  who  came  to  help  at  the  Com- 
munion was  a  friend,  his  wife  (if  he  had  one)  was 
always  invited  with  him.    And  then  we  had  endless 


152  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

parties,  and  people  dropping  in  casually  all  the  time, 
as  is  the  friendly  country  way.  In  a  big  city  every- 
thing is  different.  Ministers  came  to  preach,  but 
we  only  saw  them  for  a  few  minutes  in  the  vestry; 
they  had  no  time  to  come  out  to  us  for  a  meal. 
Everything  was  a  rush;  we  had  all  so  much  to  do 
that  there  was  little  coming  and  going  between  the 
different  ministers'  wives.  Almost  our  only  meet- 
ing-place was  the  house  in  which  the  Clerical  Club 
was  held  once  a  month,  when  papers  were  read  and 
we  had  tea." 

"I  liked  when  the  Club  was  at  our  house,"  said 
Ann,  "but  I  thought  ministers  had  very  poor  taste 
in  jokes:  they  laughed  so  much  at  such  very  poor 
ones.  I  remember  one  facetious  minister  saying 
to  me,  'It  would  be  a  grand  job  ours  if  it  weren't 
for  the  Sabbaths,'  and  looking  startled  when  I  cor- 
dially agreed  with  him.  To  a  child  of  twelve  the 
writing  of  sermons  does  seem  a  waste  of  time.  But, 
Mother,  you  knew  lots  of  ministers'  wives  in  Glas- 
gow. Why,  Mr.  Johnston  is  still  a  bosom  friend 
of  yours.  Oh,  do  you  remember  how  you  used  to 
tease  Father  by  holding  up  Mr.  Johnston  as  an 
example  of  what  every  minister  should  be^" 

"I  didn't  mean  it;  your  father  knew  that  very 
well,  and  he  didn't  care  a  scrap  who  was  held  up 
to  him — but  I  wish  now  I  hadn't  done  it.  But  the 
Johnstons  were  really  the  most  exemplary  couple 
in  every  way,  almost  provoking  in  their  perfection. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     153 

Their  church  was  quite  near  Martyrs,  and  their 
house  was  quite  near  ours,  and  we  were  very  good 
friends ;  but  sometimes  I  couldn't  help  being  envious 
a  little.  In  Inchkeld  and  Kirkcaple  we  had  had  pros- 
perous, well-attended  churches,  but  in  Glasgow  that 
was  changed.  Our  new  field,  so  to  speak,  was  a 
difficult  one.  Martyrs  was  in  the  heart  of  the  town, 
in  a  district  full  of  Jews  and  Roman  Catholics, 
which  meant  that  we  had  a  very  small  population 
to  draw  from,  and  most  of  our  people  came  from 
distant  suburbs.  When  we  came  to  Glasgow, 
Martyrs  was  known  as  'the  scrapit  kirk'  because  of 
its  white,  unpainted  seats.  No  hymn  had  ever  been 
sung  in  it;  rarely,  if  ever,  a  paraphrase.  A  precentor 
in  a  box  led  the  people  in  the  Psalms  of  David. 
Everything  was  as  it  had  been  for  the  last  hundred 
years.  The  congregation  looked  a  mere  handful  in 
the  great  church,  and  I  must  say  I  quailed  in  spirit 
when  I  saw  the  wilderness  of  empty  seats." 

"Jeanie  Tod,  the  nursemaid,"  said  Ann,  "always 
let  me  read  not  only  the  letters  she  received,  but 
the  letters  she  wrote,  and  in  one  I  read:  The 
church  is  very  toom^  but  Mr.  Douglas  will  soon  fill 
it.'  It  was  indeed  too7n^  but  every  Sunday  we  ex- 
pected quite  suddenly  it  would  fill  up  and  we  would 
go  in  and  find  a  crowd.  It  did  fill  up  a  little,  didn't 
it  Mother?' 

"Oh  yes,  a  lot  of  new  people  came;  but  it  was 
never  anything  like  full.     Mr.  Johnston,  with  the 


154  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

very  same  difficulties  to  contend  with,  had  his  filled 
to  overflowing.  He  was  a  splendid  organiser,  and 
very  wise  and  prudent;  and  his  wife  was  just  as 
good  in  her  own  way.  She  was  a  miracle  for  cut- 
ting out — I  was  no  good  at  that — and  her  sewing- 
classes  and  Mothers'  Meetings,  and  indeed  every- 
thing she  attempted,  were  the  best  in  the  district, 
and  she  was  so  pretty  and  neat  that  it  was  a  pleas- 
ure to  look  at  her.  If  I  held  Mr.  Johnston  up  to 
your  father,  I  held  Mrs.  Johnston  up  to  myself." 

"But  Father  worked  just  as  hard  as  Mr.  John- 
ston," Ann  said. 

"Oh  yes,  but  he  hadn't  Mr.  Johnston's  business 
capacity.  He  was  the  despair  of  those  who  look  for 
the  reality  of  things  in  minute-books  and  financial 
statements.  A  small  audience  never  troubled  him. 
Every  one  was  there  that  the  message  was  meant 
for,  he  sometimes  told  me.  For  what  the  world 
calls  success  he  never  craved.  I  could  see  that  it 
was  fine,  but  it  was  rather  aimoying,  too." 

Ann  laughed,  and  Marget  said  reminiscently,  "It 
was  a  braw  kirk  when  we  got  it  a'  pentit  and  the  seats 
widened,  and  a  choir  and  organ  and  hymns  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas;  "gradually  the  ser- 
vice was  brought  into  line  with  present-day  ideas. 
I  confess  I  was  rather  sorry,  and  your  father  would 
have  been  very  pleased  to  leave  it  as  it  was.  He 
infinitely  preferred  the  Psalms  of  David  to  mere 
'human'  hymns." 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     155 

"I  should  think  so,"  said  Ann.  "Imagine  sing- 
ing a  chirruppy  hymn  when  one  might  sing  'O  thou, 
my  soul,  bless  God  the  Lord,'  to  the  tune  of 
Trench.'  " 

"  'Deed,"  said  Marget,  "a  buddy  never  gets  tired 
o'  the  psalms;  they're  wonderfu'  comfortin',  but 
some  o'  the  hymns  are  ower  bairnly  even  for  bairns. 
I've  a  fair  ill-will  at  that  yin  aboot  *What  can  little 
eyes  do*?'  but  I  like  fine  to  sing  There  is  a  happy 
land  far,  far  away.'  We  aye  sung  that  on  Sabbath 
nichts  when  ye  were  a'  wee." 

"There's  a  lot  in  association,"  Ann  said.  "Words 
you  have  loved  as  a  child  have  always  a  glamour 
over  them.  I  liked  the  sound  of  the  psalms,  but  I 
got  dreadfully  tied  up  in  the  hymns.  I  always 
sang : 

*Can  a  woman's  tender  care 
Cease  towards  the  child  she-bear?* 

with  the  picture  in  my  mind  of  a  dear  fubsey  bear 
being  petted.  D'you  remember  Robbie  always 
chose  hymns  that  mentioned  Satan*?" 

"Ay,"  Marget  said  seriously.  "Puir  Maister 
Robbie  had  aye  an  awfu'  wark  wi'  Satan  when  he 
was  a  wee  laddie." 

Ann  laughed,  and,  getting  up  from  the  fender- 
stool,  went  over  to  the  bureau. 

"Mother,"  she  said,  "I  promised  to  ask  Mr.  Scott 
over  to  see  our  funny  little  house.  Would  luncheon 
on  Thursday  be  a  suitable  sort  of  time^" 


CHAPTER  XIV 

ANN  had  been  writing  steadily  for  nearly  an 
hour. 

Her  mother,  watching  her,  said: 

"Fm  afraid,  if  you  write  so  hard,  your  brain 
will  go.'' 

Ann,  as  if  glad  of  the  interruption,  laid  her  pen 
m  a  china  dish,  pushed  away  the  sheets  of  paper, 
sighed  deeply,  and,  rising,  came  over  to  the  fire. 

"I  know  it  will,"  she  said.  "I  can  feel  it  doing 
it.  It's  that  old  Life  of  yours — I  can't  make  it 
sound  right.  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  talks  somewhere 
of  men  whose  true  selves  are  almost  completely 
obscured  beneath  their  ragged  and  incompetent 
speech.  I'm  afraid  I'm  concealing  you  completely 
under  my  'ragged  and  incompetent'  words.  If  you 
live  to  be  ninety,  as  you  threaten,  it  will  be  all  right ; 
the  children  will  be  able  to  make  their  own  esti- 
mate, but,  if  they  have  to  depend  on  my  Life^  I 
don't  quite  know  what  they'll  make  of  you." 

Ann  began  to  laugh  in  a  helpless  way.  "It's 
funny.  I  know  so  well  what  impression  I  want  to 
give,  but  when  I  try  to  write  it  down  it's  just  noth- 
ing— stilted,  meaningless  sentences.  I  want  to  make 
a  picture  of  Dr.  Struthers.     I've  been  trying  for 

156 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     157 

the  last  hour,  labouring  in  rowing,  covering  my  brow 
in  wrinkles,  with  no  result.  How  would  you  de- 
scribe him?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  thought  for  a  minute.  "It  would 
be  difficult  to  make  a  true  picture  of  him.  If  you 
simply  told  of  the  views  that  were  his,  how  he 
wouldn't  sing  a  paraphrase,  let  alone  a  hymn,  and 
held  the  Sabbath  day  as  something  that  must  not 
be  broken,  you  would  give  an  impression  of  narrow- 
ness and  rigid  conservatism  that  wouldn't  at  all  be 
the  Dr.  Struthers  that  we  knew.  When  we  heard 
that  the  Glasgow  church  had  a  senior  minister,  we 
thought  it  was  a  drawback;  your  father  rather  won- 
dered how  he  would  comport  himself  as  a  'colleague 
and  successor,'  but  we  didn't  know  Dr.  Struthers 
then.  Sometimes,  in  Glasgow,  when  we  were  in- 
clined to  regret  Kirkcaple  and  the  flourishing  con- 
gregation, and  the  peaceful  time  we  enjoyed  there 
— but  when  I  say  peaceful  I  mean  only  compara- 
tively, no  minister's  wife  ever  attains  to  peace  in 
this  world ! — your  father  would  say,  'But  if  we  had 
stayed  in  Kirkcaple  we  would  never  have  known 
Dr.  Struthers,'  and  that  closed  the  matter.  When  I 
first  met  him  I  thought  he  was  more  like  some  fresh, 
hearty  old  country  laird  than  a  parson.  But  he 
was  really  very  frail,  and  to  walk  even  a  short  dis- 
tance was  a  great  effort.  He  had  a  place  about 
fifty  miles  from  Glasgow,  Langlands,  and  as  long 
as  he  was  able  he  came  to  preach  in  Martyrs  about 


158  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

once  a  month.  The  old  congregation  adored  to  have 
him  come,  but  the  newcomers,  who  had  no  romance 
about  the  old  man,  thought  his  sermons  much  too 
long.  And  they  were  too  long  as  sermons  go  now. 
We  are  not  the  patient  listeners  our  forefathers 
were.  Dr.  Struthers  once  said  to  me  that  no  man 
could  do  justice  to  a  subject  under  fifty-five  minutes, 
and  we  used  sometimes  to  think  that  he  was  done 
before  his  allotted  time,  but  he  just  went  on." 

"We  children  dearly  loved  Dr.  Struthers,"  said 
Ann;  "but  we  did  not  appreciate  the  length  of  his 
sermons.  My  friend,  Mrs.  Smail — the  butcher's 
wife,  you  remember^ — used  to  sit  with  a  most  for- 
lorn face  while  he  preached ;  thinking,  I  expect,  that 
she  would  be  half  an  hour  late,  and  that  the  nu- 
merous young  Smails  would  have  fallen  in  the  fire. 
Dear  me,  it's  a  long  time  since  I  thought  of  Mrs. 
Smail.  I  liked  her  very  much.  There  was  a  sort  of 
bond  of  sympathy  between  us,  and  she  invited  me 
sometimes  to  tea-parties  where  we  got  tea  and 
cookies  and  penny  cakes  and  hot  roast  beef.  I  never 
learned  to  appreciate  the  combination,  but  the  rest 
of  the  company  seemed  to  enjoy  it.  I  sat  beside 
one  gentleman  who,  after  doing  full  justice  to  the 
meal,  wiped  his  forehead  with  a  red  silk  handker- 
chief, and,  turning  to  me,  said,  "A  grand  house  this 
for  flesh.'  After  the  'flesh'  we  all  contributed  songs 
and  recitations — ^great  evenings.  Well,  what  I 
mean  to  say  is  that  Mrs.  Smail  represented  the  new 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     159 

people  who  were  impatient  of  Dr.  Struthers  and 
impatient  of  all  the  old  traditions  of  the  church 
which  the  original  members  clung  to  with  such  pa- 
thetic loyalty." 

"But  in  time,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "the  new- 
comers got  to  see  how  very  fine  the  old  man  was, 
and  everybody  was  sorry  when  he  got  too  frail  to 
preach.  It  was  quite  extraordinary  how  fond  you 
children  were  of  him,  for  he  never  told  you  stories 
or  played  with  you." 

"No,"  said  Ann  thoughtfully,  "he  never  did  any- 
thing to  make  himself  popular.  We  didn't  expect 
it  any  more  than  we  would  have  expected  a  god 
from  Mount  Olympus  to  jest  with  a  mortal.  They 
say  we  needs  must  love  the  highest  when  we  see  it, 
but  that  isn't  true;  often  the  highest  simply  irri- 
tates. I  think  it  was  his  simple  goodness  that  made 
us  fond  of  him,  and  a  certain  understanding  and 
sympathy  that  he  had  for  bad  children.  And  he 
never  talked  down  to  us  or  became  facetious." 

Mrs.  Douglas  nodded.  "I  know.  Children  like 
to  be  taken  seriously,  and  Dr.  Struthers  was  cer- 
tainly not  given  to  making  fun  of  them." 

Ann  clasped  her  hands  round  her  knees  and 
looked  into  the  fire. 

"One  thing  we  liked  about  the  Glasgow  Sundays 
was  that  we  stayed  down  in  the  vestry  for  lunch. 
It  was  our  weekly  picnic,  and  the  fact  that  it  was 
eaten  in  the  church  premises  gave  a  touch  of  solem- 


i6o  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

nity  to  the  occasion.  When  Dr.  Struthers  was 
preaching,  we  had  a  more  elaborate  meal.  Strong 
beef-tea  was  made  at  home  and  brought  down  in  a 
bottle  to  be  heated,  for  he  was  often  very  exhausted 
after  preaching.  One  never-to-be-forgotten  day  I 
was  told  to  watch  the  pan  of  beef-tea  heating,  and  I 
had  evidently  begun  to  dream,  for  the  pan  fell  into 
the  fire  and  the  contents  were  lost.  I  felt  as  badly 
about  it  as  any  of  you,  but  I  only  made  a  sulky  face. 
I  knew  it  was  a  real  deprivation  for  the  old  man. 
though  he  made  light  of  it,  and  said  cocoa  would 
be  a  nice  change,  and  I  felt  very  unhappy  all  through 
lunch.  There  was  a  particularly  fine  orange  among 
some  apples  on  a  plate,  and  you  asked  Dr.  Struthers 
to  take  it,  but  he  looked  across  at  my  small  sullen 
face  and  said,  with  that  most  delightful  smile  of 
his,  1  think  we  must  give  this  orange  to  Arm.'  I 
never  forgot  the  way  he  did  it;  the  'pretty  and 
sweet  manner'  of  it  quite  conquered  me  and  made 
me  far  sorrier  for  my  carelessness  than  any  scolding 
would  have  done.  I  don't  believe  scoldings  ever 
do  any  good,  only  harm." 

"Some  children,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "are  the 
better  of  scoldings.  Mark  always  'took  a  telling,' 
but  the  more  you  and  Robbie  were  scolded,  the  worse 
you  got.  .  .  .  Generally  Dr.  Struthers  stayed  with 
his  daughter,  but  now  and  again  he  stayed  with  us. 
We  liked  having  him,  but  it  made  rather  an  up- 
heaval in  our  modest  establishment.     You  see,  he 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     161 

had  to  bring  his  man,  Samuel  Thomson,  with  him, 
and  Samuel  Thomson  was  such  a  very  superior,  sil- 
ver-haired, apple-cheeked  gentleman's  gentleman, 
we  could  hardly  ask  him  to  take  his  meals  in  the 
kitchen,  so  the  boys'  study  had  to  be  given  up  to  him. 
Davie  was  very  fond  of  sitting  with  him,  and  I 
once  overhead  Samuel  Thomson  reading  aloud  to 
him  from  the  Bible  some  Old  Testament  story,  and 
commenting  on  what  he  read.  'Those  were  grand 
angels.  Master  David,'  he  was  saying.  It  was  the 
time  when  Davie  cared  for  nothing  but  to  be  like 
a  jockey." 

"  'Angels!'  he  said,  1  thought  you  were  talking 
about  horses,'  and  he  straddled  away  in  deep 
disgust." 

Ann  laughed.  "Davie  was  very  much  against  all 
things  religious  at  that  time,  and  he  wouldn't  even 
say  his  prayers.  Marget  used  to  toil  up  from  the 
kitchen  to  reason  with  him,  and  when  he  heard  her 
coming  he  would  give  a  wicked  wallop  in  his  bed 
and  say,  'That's  Marget  comin'  to  convert  me.'  You 
know,  Mother,  in  some  ways  Davie  was  a  much  more 
abandoned  character  than  we  were  as  children.  We 
reverenced  the  Covenanters,  but  Davie  said  he  pre- 
ferred Claverhouse,  and  most  blasphemously  said  of 
John  Brown,  of  Priesthill — he  must  have  got  the 
expression  from  Marget — 'I  think  John  Brown  was 
a  gey  lawd.'  Speaking  of  conversion,  I  think  Dr. 
Stnithers   was   the   only   person   we   didn't   mind 


i62  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

'speaking  personally'  to  us.  We  realised  that  he, 
like  Nehemiah,  'feared  the  Lord  above  many/ 
When  Mark  told  him  he  meant  to  go  to  Oxford 
and  then  to  the  Bar,  he  said,  'Look  higher  than  the 
Woolsack,  Mark.'  He  spoke  kindly  to  Jeanie  Tod 
about  her  home  in  Kirkcaple,  and  said,  'Do  you  ever 
think  where  you  are  going?'  and  I  shall  always  re- 
member how  one  day  he  laid  his  big  soft  hand  on 
my  unruly  head  and  said,  'Little  Ann,  take  Jesus.^ 
Do  you  remember  one  day  when  he  was  preaching 
I  announced  that  I  had  a  sore  throat  and  couldn't 
possibly  go  to  church,  and  was  allowed  to  remain 
at  home*?  Dr.  Struthers  missed  me,  and  asked  why 
I  wasn't  there,  and  you — not  greatly  believing,  I 
daresay,  in  the  excuse — said  I  had  a  sore  throat. 
Mark  rushed  home  between  services  to  tell  me  that 
Dr.  Struthers  had  prayed  for  me  in  church,  prayed 
that  my  bodily  affliction  might  pass  from  me! 
Guiltily  aware  of  perfect  health — my  sore  throat 
hadn't  kept  me  from  eating  apples  and  reading  a 
story-book — I  didn't  know  what  awful  consequences 
the  prayer  might  have.  Anyway,  I  flew  upstairs, 
flung  on  my  coat  and  hat,  and  was  in  my  place  for 
the  afternoon  service,  determined  to  ward  off  any 
more  petitions  on  my  behalf.  But  I  was  never 
frightened  for  Dr.  Struthers  after  I  found  he  liked 
adventure  books  and  didn't  even  mind  the  swear 
words.  He  was  surely  a  very  rich  man.  Mother? 
Ministers  don't  as  a  rule  have  places  like  Lang- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     163 

lands,  and  man-servants  and  maid-servants.  A 
house  and  a  wife,  and  a  stranger  within  the  gates 
are  about  all  they  ever  attain  to." 

"Yes,  he  was  rich,  but  I  never  met  anyone  who 
gave  one  so  little  an  impression  of  great  possessions. 
Having  his  treasure  laid  up  where  thieves  cannot 
break  through  and  steal,  he  cared  little  for  the  gold 
of  this  world.  He  gave  largely,  but  so  unobtru- 
sively that  it  wasn't  until  his  death  that  we  realised 
the  extent  of  his  givings.  He  was  the  humblest  of 
men,  lowly  and  a  peacemaker." 

"Once,"  said  Ann,  "Robbie  and  Jim  and  I  went 
from  Etterick  to  spend  the  day  at  Langlands.  It 
was  after  Mrs.  Struthers  died,  and  Miss  Calder  kept 
house.  I  somehow  think  we  weren't  expected. 
There  was  something  queer  about  it,  anyway,  and 
Miss  Calder,  although  she  was  kind,  as  she  always 
was,  looked  very  worried.  She  had  some  engage- 
ment in  the  village  that  morning,  so  she  sent  us  up 
the  hill  to  play  till  luncheon.  We  went  obediently 
up  the  hill,  but  as  soon  as  we  saw  Miss  Calder  walk 
down  the  avenue,  back  we  pranced.  Samuel  Thom- 
son saw  us,  and,  conducting  us  to  the  croquet  lawn, 
advised  us  to  have  a  game.  He  helped  us  to  put 
out  the  hoops,  and  we  began  to  play.  Unfortu- 
nately Robbie  and  I  soon  fell  into  a  discussion  about 
the  right  and  wrong  way  to  play,  and  I  regret  to 
say  I  kicked  Robbie,  who  at  once  retaliated,  and 
the  next  thing  the  horrified  eyes  of  Samuel  Thorn- 


i64  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

son  saw  was  Robbie  and  me  hitting  one  another 
with  croquet  mallets.  It  was  only  the  beginning 
of  a  thoroughly  ill-spent  day,  and  if  Dr.  Struthers 
and  Miss  Calder  hadn't  been  the  most  patient  and 
forgiving  of  people  we  would  never  have  been  asked 
back." 

"It  was  odd,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas;  "but  you  and 
Robbie  could  never  behave  properly  if  you  were 
together.  I  wonder  I  was  so  rash  as  to  let  you  go 
away  for  a  whole  day,  and  to  Langlands  of  all 
places.  Its  beautiful  tidiness  seemed  to  act  on  you 
in  a  pernicious  way.  It  was  always  a  treat  to  me 
to  go  to  Langlands.  I  enjoyed  the  beauty  and  the 
peace  of  it,  and  it  seemed  exactly  the  right  setting 
for  Dr.  Struthers.  I  was  thankful  that,  when  the 
end  came,  it  came  at  Langlands,  suddenly,  pain- 
lessly, and  most  fittingly  on  the  Sabbath  day.  'I  am 
going,'  he  said  to  Samuel  Thomson,  and  in  a  minute 
he  was  gone,  almost  'translated  unaware.'  " 

"What  a  beautiful  way  to  die,"  said  Ann.  "His 
task  accomplished  and  the  long  day  done.  Without 
weariness  of  waiting,  with  no  pain  of  parting,  sud- 
denly to  find  his  boat  in  the  harbour  and  to  see  his 
Pilot  face  to  face," 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  arrival  of  the  post  was  almost  the  only 
excitement  at  Dreams,  and  on  the  days  that 
the  Indian  and  South  African  mails  came,  Mrs. 
Douglas  could  do  nothing  but  pore  over  the  precious 
letters.  She  pounced  on  them  when  they  arrived, 
and  read  them  anxiously;  after  luncheon  she  read 
them  again,  and  in  the  evening  she  read  them  aloud 
in  case  she  or  Ann  had  missed  a  word. 

One  evening  she  sat  with  a  pile  of  letters  on  her 
lap,  her  large  tortoise-shell  spectacles  on  the  top  of 
the  pile,  and  said,  with  a  satisfied  sigh : 

"This  has  been  a  good  day — ^news  from  all  quar- 
ter^. I  am  glad  Jim  is  having  this  tour.  He  does 
love  to  see  the  world,  and  to  be  able  to  combine 
business  and  pleasure  makes  a  holiday  ideal.  Char- 
lotte and  Mark  seem  to  be  enjoying  their  trip 
greatly,  but  I  can  see  Charlotte's  thoughts  are  al- 
ways with  the  children.  She  says  she  knows  they 
won't  be  missing  her,  but  I  think  she  is  wrong.  I 
dare  say  they  are  quite  happy,  but  they  must  feel 
a  lack.  Charlotte  has  such  pretty  ways  with  her 
children,  and  I  think  they  realise  that  they  have  got 
rather  a  special  mother,  though  Rory  says,  Toor 
Mummy's  English,  but  we're  Scots.'     I  do  wonder, 

165 


i66  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

Ann,  when  Rory  is  going  to  begin  to  write  better. 
This  letter  is  a  disgrace,  both  in  writing  and  spell- 
ing, and  his  school  report  said  that  he  cared  for 
nothing  but  cricket  and  food." 

"What  does  it  matter,  Mother?"  said  Ann  com- 
fortably; *'he  is  only  nine.  I'm  glad  he  isn't  pre- 
cocious, and  I  like  his  staggering  little  letters.  He 
said  to  me  once,  T'r'aps  you  notice  that  I  always 
say  the  same  thing  in  my  letters?'  I  said  that  I  had 
noticed  a  certain  lack  of  variety  in  his  statements, 
and  he  explained,  'You  see,  those  are  the  only  words 
I  can  spell,  and  I  don't  like  to  ask  people.'  It  isn't 
in  the  least  that  he  lacks  brains.  He  knows  all  sorts 
of  things  outside  his  ordinary  lessons :  about  the  ways 
of  birds  and  beasts  you  can't  fickle  him;  and  he 
reads  a  lot  and  has  his  own  ideas  about  things.  He 
hates  Oliver  Cromwell  and  all  his  works.  One  day 
at  table  some  one  mentioned  that  great  man,  and 
Rory's  face  got  pink  all  over,  and  he  said,  'I  hate 
him,  the  sieve-headed  brute.'  It  was  funny  to  see 
Mark,  whose  admiration  for  Oliver  Cromwell  is  un- 
boimded,  surveying  his  small  son.  A  more  unjust 
accusation  was  never  made,  but  Rory  is  a  born 
Royalist." 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head.  "He  ought  to 
write  better  than  he  does.  I  don't  think  children 
are  taught  properly  now.  Have  they  copy-books? 
I  used  to  write  copperplate;  indeed,  I  got  a  prize 
for  writing." 


> 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     167 

"I  know,"  said  Ann,  "and  one  for  spelling,  and 
one  for  dictation,  and  one  for  composition,  and 
one  for  French.  You  used  to  reel  them  off  to  me 
when  I  came  home  without  a  single  one.  The  only 
prize  I  got  was  for  needlework,  and  I  fear  it  was 
more  by  way  of  a  consolation  prize  than  anything 
else.  No  wonder  I  feel  for  poor  old  Rory.  Alis  is 
more  of  your  school  of  thought;  she  is  a  clever 
child." 

Mrs.  Douglas  refused  to  be  optimistic.  "Alis 
picks  things  up  almost  too  easily.  Tm  afraid  she 
will  be  a  Jack-of-all-trades.  Did  you  read  Nannie's 
letter*?  Rob  and  Davie  seem  to  be  thriving.  Char- 
lotte will  find  a  great  difference  in  the  little  pair." 
Mrs.  Douglas  put  on  her  spectacles  and  took  up  a 
letter  to  read  extracts,  but  Ann  caught  her  hand. 

"Not  now.  Mother,  please;  we  must  talk  of  Glas- 
gow now.  I  want  to  finish  your  Life  this  week  and 
get  begun  to  my  Christmas  presents.  You'll  read 
the  letters  to  us  when  Marget  and  Mysie  come  in  to 
prayers.  ...  I  wish  you  would  give  me  your  ad- 
vice, for,  after  all,  it  is  your  affair.  So  far  I  have 
drawn  your  portrait  as  a  very  efficient,  very  pains- 
taking, and,  I  fear,  very  dull  minister's  wife.  You 
see,  that  side  of  you  is  so  easy  to  draw.  But  the 
other  side  is  so  much  more  you.  If  I  could  only 
write  about  you  as  I  remember  you  at  home  with 
us,  anxiously  doing  your  best  for  every  one,  slaving 
away  with  Sales  of  Work  and  Mothers'  Meetings, 


i68  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

incorrigibly  hospitable,  pretending  deep  and  abiding 
pessimism,  but  liable  at  any  moment  to  break  into 
bursts  of  delightful  nonsense  and  rash  talking — the 
person  who  never  talks  rashly  is  a  weariness  to  the 
flesh — a  most  excellent  mimic — when  you  came  in 
from  visiting,  you  made  us  see  the  people  you  had 
been  seeing — with  a  rare  talent  for  living  ..." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laid  down  her  stocking  and  gasped 
at  her  daughter: 

*'Ann!  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  There 
never  was  a  more  ordinary  woman,  and  if  you  try 
to  make  me  anything  else,  you  are  simply  romanc- 
ing. Fm  sure  you  have  always  said  that  you  would 
know  me  for  a  minister's  wife  a  mile  away." 

"In  appearance,  my  dear  lady,  you  are  a  typical 
minister's  wife,  but  your  conversation  is  often  a 
pleasing  surprise.  And,  oh!  surely.  Mother,  all 
ministers'  wives  don't  behave  to  congregations  as 
you  did.  Given  to  hospitality  should  be  your  epi- 
taph. I  remember  when  we  left  Glasgow,  Mrs. 
Nicol,  bemoaning  to  me  your  going  away,  said, 
*Well,  we'll  never  get  another  like  her.  Who  else 
would  have  bothered  to  have  me  and  my  wild  boys 
in  her  housed'  and  I,  remembering  John  and  Mac- 
kenzie, could  have  echoed,  'Who,  indeed^'  " 

Mrs.  Douglas  was  about  to  speak,  but  Aim  hur- 
ried on: 

"No,  Mother,  don't  defend  them.  You  can't  have 
forgotten  that  black  day  when  the  Nicol  family  ar- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     169 

rived  to  spend  the  afternoon — John  and  Mackenzie, 
ripe  for  any  wickedness.  The  house  had  just  been 
spring  cleaned,  and  was  spotless,  and  those  two  boys 
went  through  it  like  an  army  with  banners.  It  was 
wet,  and  they  couldn't  go  out  to  the  garden,  and 
they  scoffed  at  the  very  idea  of  looking  at  picture- 
books.  They  slid  down  the  banisters,  they  tobog- 
ganed down  the  white  enamelled  stairs,  they  kicked 
the  paint  off  the  doors.  They  broke  Davie's  cher- 
ished air-gun,  and  their  mother,  instead  of  rebuking: 
them,  seemed  to  admire  their  high  spirits.  Utterly 
worn  out,  I  left  them  to  work  their  wicked  will  ia 
the  box-room — I  thought  they  would  be  compara- 
tively harmless  there;  but  presently  we  smelt  burn- 
ing, and  found  them  in  your  bedroom  with  the 
towel-horse  on  fire.  No  man  knows  how  they  ac- 
complished it,  for  a  towel-horse  isn't  a  particularly 
inflammable  thing,  but  if  I  hadn't  managed  to  throw 
it  out  of  the  window,  I  believe  the  house  might  have 
been  burned  down." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed,  and  told  her  daughter 
not  to  exaggerate. 

"Mrs.  Nicol  was  a  particularly  nice  woman,  and 
there  was  nothing  wrong  with  John  and  Mackenzie 
except  high  spirits.  Mackenzie  came  to  see  us  at 
Priorsford — I  think  you  must  have  been  away  from 
home — such  a  quiet,  well-mannered  young  fellow. 
Both  he  and  his  brother  are  doing  very  well.    The 


170  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

Nicols  were  mild  compared  to  the  Wrights — ^you 
remember  Phil  and  Ronald?" 

Ann  threw  up  her  hands  at  the  mention  of  the 
names. 

"The  Wrights,"  she  said,  "were  really  the  frozen 
edge.  The  only  thing  Mrs.  Wright  had  ever  been 
able  to  teach  her  offspring  was  to  call  her  'Mother 
dear,'  which  they  did  religiously.  Davie  was  no 
model,  but  he  sat  round-eyed  at  the  performance 
of  the  Wrights  when  they  came  to  tea.  They 
mounted  on  the  table  and  pranced  among  the  butter 
and  jam  dishes,  and  to  all  their  mother's  anguished 
entreaties  to  desist  they  replied,  in  the  broadest  of 
accents,  *We  wull  not.  Mother  dear — we  wull  not.' 
They  thought  Davie's  accent  rather  finicking — 
Davie's  accent  which  at  that  stage  was  a  compound 
of  low  Glasgow  and  broad  Linlithgow  picked  up 
from  the  nursemaid — and  asked,  Ts  Davie  English, 
Mother  dear?' 

"  'No,  no,  darlings'  (Mrs.  Wright's  own  accent 
was  all  that  there  was  of  the  most  genteel),  'he  only 
speaks  nicely.'  Marget  used  to  shake  her  head  over 
the  Wrights  and  say,  'Eh,  I  say,  thae  bairns  need  a 
guid  skelpin'.'  " 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas;  "but  the  last  time  I 
saw  the  Wright  boys  they  were  the  most  glossy- 
looking  creatures — ^you  know  the  kind  of  young  men 
whose  hair  looks  unnaturally  bright  and  whose 
clothes  fit  almost  too  well;  don't  you  call  them 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     171 

Toiuts'^ — with  supercilious  manners  and  Glasgow- 
English  voices,  and  I  rather  yearned  for  the  ex- 
tremely bad  but  quite  unaffected  little  boys  they 
once  had  been." 

"I  know ;  one  often  regrets  the  lad  that  is  gone/ 
Boys  are  like  pigs,  they  are  nicest  when  they  are 
small.  Talking  of  the  Wrights  reminds  me  of  a 
children's  party  we  once  gave,  to  which  you  invited 
a  missionary's  little  girl,  and  two  black  boys.  You 
had  never  seen  them  and  thought  they  would  be 
quite  tiny,  and  when  they  came  they  were  great 
strong  creatures  with  pointed  teeth.  Somebody  told 
us  they  had  teeth  like  that  because  they  were  canni- 
bals, and,  after  hearing  that,  it  was  a  nightmare 
evening.  We  played  hide-and-seek,  and  every  one 
screamed  with  terror  when  caught  by  the  poor  black 
boys.  It  was  terrible  to  see  them  eating  sandwiches 
at  supper  and  reflect  on  what  they  would  have  liked 
to  eat." 

"Oh,  Ann!  The  poor  innocents!  They  weren't 
cannibals;  they  were  rescued  by  the  missionaries 
when  they  were  babies.  But  I  must  say  I  was  rather 
alarmed  when  I  saw  how  big  they  were.  They 
didn't  realise  their  own  strength,  and  I  was  afraid 
they  might  hurt  some  of  the  little  ones.  I  spent  an 
anxious  evening,  too." 

"Mother,"  said  Ann,  leaning  forward  with  her 
elbows  on  her  knees  and  her  face  supported  in  her 
two  hands,  "you  were  dreadfully  given  to  spoiling 


172  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

the  look  of  my  parties.  The  boys  didn't  mind,  but 
I  was  a  desperate  little  snob.  It  seemed  impossible 
for  me  to  have  the  kind  of  party  other  girls  had, 
with  all  the  children  prettily  dressed,  and  dancing, 
and  a  smart  supper.  At  the  last  moment  you  were 
always  discovering  some  child  who  was  crippled  and 
didn't  get  any  fun,  or  some  one  who  hadn't  a  proper 
party  frock  and  hadn't  been  asked  to  any  parties. 
You  told  them  it  didn't  matter  what  they  wore  to 
our  house,  and  insisted  on  their  coming — 'compelled 
them  to  come  in.'  Oh,  you  were  a  real  'highways 
and  hedges  person' !  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  wasn't 
at  all  kind  to  ask  those  children.  They  felt  out  of 
it  and  unhappy,  no  matter  how  much  one  tried. 
If  you  had  asked  them  when  there  wasn't  a  party, 
and  they  could  have  had  all  the  attention,  it  would 
have  been  infinitely  better." 

*'Oh,  I  dare  say,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas.  "I've  spent 
my  life  doing  impulsive  things  and  regretting  them. 
But,  Ann,  though  you  laugh  at  me  about  having 
so  many  people  to  the  house,  the  trouble  we  took 
was  nothing  compared  to  the  pleasure  it  gave.  In 
our  church  there  were  so  many  who  needed  encour- 
agement: single  women  fighting  for  a  living  and 
coming  home  after  a  long  day's  work  to  cook  their 
supper  over  a  gas-ring  were  glad  at  times  to  get  a 
well-cooked  and  daintily  served  meal,  with  people 
to  talk  to  while  they  ate ;  and  mothers  cooped  up  in 
tiny  flats  with  noisy  children  liked  to  walk  to  a  green 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     173 

suburb,  and  get  tea  and  home-made  scones  and  jam; 
and  it  does  make  a  difference  to  boys  from  the  coun- 
try, living  in  lodgings,  if  they  know  there  is  some 
house  they  can  go  to  whenever  they  like." 

"True,  my  dear,  true,  and  I  don't  suppose  you 
ever  denied  yourself  to  anyone,  no  matter  how  tired, 
or  ill,  or  grieved  you  were  feeling.  You  welcomed 
them  all  with  'gently  smiling  jaws.'  Do  you  re- 
member the  only  occasion  on  which  we  said  'Not  at 
home'  ?  We  had  been  at  the  church  hall  all  after- 
noon preparing  it  for  a  church  'At  Home'  and  had 
just  come  in  for  tea  and  a  short  rest,  with  the  pros- 
pect of  three  hours'  solid  smiling  later  in  the  even- 
ing. When  I  found  the  housemaid  going  to  answer 
the  door-bell  I  hissed  at  her,  'Say  not  at  home,'  and 
by  sheer  bad  luck  the  caller  turned  out  to  be  a  min- 
ister's wife  from  a  distance,  who  had  depended  on 
being  warmed  and  fed  at  our  house.  She  had  gone 
home  cold  and  tealess  and,  as  a  consequence,  got  a 
bad  chill,  and  we  felt  so  guilty  about  it  we  trailed 
away  to  see  her,  and  on  hearing  she  had  a  sale  of 
work  in  prospect — when  has  a  minister's  wife  not 
a  sale  of  work  in  prospect? — we  felt  bound  to  send 
her  a  handsome  contribution.  I  sadly  sacrificed  on 
the  altar  of  remorse  some  pretty  silver  things  I  had 
brought  from  India,  feeling  it  an  expensive  pleasure 
to  say  'Not  at  home.'  But  of  course  you  are  right. 
Now  that  it  is  all  over  and  we  have  long  hours  to 
read  and  write  and  think  long  thoughts,  it  is  nice  to 


174  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

feel  that  you  helped  a  lot  of  people  over  rough  bits 
of  the  road  and  didn't  think  of  how  tired  it  made 
you." 

Mrs.  Douglas  looked  at  her  daughter  with  un- 
smiling eyes.  "Do  you  know  what  I  feel?"  she 
asked.  "I  feel  that  I  have  done  nothing — nothing. 
All  the  opportunities  I  was  given,  I  can  see  now  how 
I  missed  them;  while  I  was  busy  here  and  there, 
they  were  gone.  And  I  grumbled  when  I  trudged 
down  to  the  sewing-class  on  Monday  nights,  leav- 
ing all  you  children.  I  used  sometimes  to  envy 
the  mothers  who  had  no  kirk,  and  no  meetings,  and 
could  spend  their  evenings  at  home.  I  had  to  be 
out  so  many  nights  of  the  week.  No  wonder  poor 
little  Davie  said,  'I  wish  I  had  a  mother  who  didn't 
go  to  meetings.'  And  it  was  such  a  long  way  home. 
Standing  shivering  in  the  wind  and  rain  at  the  cor- 
ner of  Bridge  Street,  waiting  for  a  car,  I  wondered 
if  there  would  ever  come  a  time  when  I  would  sit 
at  my  ease  in  the  evenings  with  no  late  meetings  to 
bother  about.  I  didn't  know  how  blessed  I  was. 
*The  Almighty  was  still  with  me,  and  my  children 
were  about  me.'  How  could  I  know  when  I  yearned 
for  ease  and  idleness  that  when  I  got  them  I  should 
sit  bereft,  and  ask  nothing  better  than  the  old  hard- 
working days  back " 

Ann  said  nothing  for  a  minute,  but  sat  scribbling 
on  a  corner  of  her  paper;  then  she  looked  at  her 
mother,  and  her  eyes  were  half  sad,  half  merry : 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     175 

"It's  an  odd  thing,  Motherkin,  that  only  very- 
good  people  feel  their  own  shortcomings.  Now,  I, 
covered  as  with  a  garment  by  sins  of  omission  and 
commission,  am  quite  perky  and  well  pleased  with 
myself.  I  walk  on  my  heels  and  think  what  a  noble 
creature  I  am,  and  how  much  people  must  admire 
me.  Try  being  complacent,  my  dear,  for  a  change ! 
It's  much  more  comfortable.  You  know.  Mother, 
you  should  have  been  a  Roman  Catholic,  then  you 
could  have  worn  a  hair  shirt,  and  done  all  sorts  of 
little  penances  and  kept  yourself  happy." 

"Oh,  Ann!"  Mrs.  Douglas  gave  a  laugh  that 
was  almost  a  sob.  "You  do  talk  such  utter  non- 
sense, but  you  look  at  me  with  your  father's 
eyes  .  .  ." 

"Well,  what  I  want  is  to  get  some  information 
about  the  Glasgow  part  of  your  life.  You  started 
a  lot  of  new  things,  didn't  you,  in  connection  with 
the  church^" 

"Oh  yes,  a  sewing-class  and  a  mother's  meeting, 
and  a  fellowship  meeting  and  a  literary  society — 
I  forget  what  else,  but  they  were  all  more  or  less 
successful.  Martyrs  people  were  delightful  to  work 
with — so  appreciative." 

"And  very  amusing,"  said  Ann;  "I  always  en- 
joyed their  remarks  about  things.  I  overheard  one 
young  man  say,  as  he  wiped  his  heated  brow  after 
a  thoroughly  unventilated  evening  spent  looking  at 
magic-lantern  slides  of  various  mission  stations — 


176  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

'My!  Fm  fair  sweatin'  comin'  through  thae 
Tropics.'  We  always  called  him  'Tropics'  after 
that.  What  they  thoroughly  enjoyed  was  being 
asked  to  our  house.  It  wasn't  till  I  grew  up  that 
I  appreciated  those  parties,  but  I  very  distinctly 
remember  some  you  gave  at  the  time  of  your  silver 
wedding  to  let  every  one  see  the  presents.  We  tried 
to  assort  the  people — young  men  and  women  in  the 
evening,  and  matrons  in  the  afternoon.  It  wasn't 
always  easy  to  find  suitable  topics  to  converse  on 
with  the  matrons,  but  one  afternoon  some  one 
started  the  subject  of  washing  clothes,  and  it  called 
forth  a  perfect  flood  of  eloquence.  Every  one  had 
something  to  say,  and  we  thrashed  out  the  subject 
from  the  first  stage  of  soaking  the  clothes  until  they 
were  starched  and  ironed  and  put  away.  There 
didn't  seem  to  be  one  more  word  that  could  be 
said  about  it  when  the  arrival  of  some  newcomers 
made  rearranging  the  room  necessary.  As  I  moved 
about,  I  saw  one  woman  hitch  her  chair  nearer  her 
neighbour  and  heard  her  say  thrillingly,  'Speakin' 

aboot  washing,  Mrs.  Law,  did  ye  ever  try '     It 

became  a  favourite  saying  with  us.  When  Robbie 
wanted  to  change  the  subject  he  always  began, 
*Speakin'  aboot  washing.  Mistress  Law '  " 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHEN  Mr.  Philip  Scott  came  to  lunch  at 
Dreams  he  stayed  a  long  time — so  long  that 
Marget  remarked  to  Mysie  in  the  kitchen,  "That 
man  is  surely  het  at  hame  that  he's  sittin'  here  so 
long  clatterin'." 

He  had  had  a  good  lunch,  had  been  shown  the 
house  and  what  would  be  the  garden,  had  walked 
with  Ann  a  little  way  along  the  hill  road  and  duly 
adr?.:/cd  the  view,  and  had  then  returned  to  the 
living-room,  where  he  sat  talking  and  listening  till 
tea  was  brought  in,  stayed  for  an  hour  after  tea, 
and  even  then  had  seemed  loath  to  go  away. 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  when  the  guest  had 
at  last  departed,  "it's  a  blessing  there  is  a  moon — 
and  that  he  knows  the  hill  road  well.  It  will  take 
him  all  his  time  to  be  at  Birkshaw  in  time  for 
diimer." 

"You  shouldn't  have  made  yourself  so  agreeable, 
Mother.  He  couldn't  bear  to  leave  your  interest- 
ing conversation." 

"As  to  that,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "it  does  one 

good  to  see  a  man  sometimes  and  hear  a  man's  talk." 

"Mother,"  laughed  Aim,  "you  dearly  love  a  man, 
177 


178   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

and  you  have  all  the  Victorian  woman's  reliance  on 
a  man's  opinion.  You  love  doing  things  for  their 
benefit;  you  positively  pander  to  them." 

Mrs.  Douglas  refused  to  be  abashed  by  this 
accusation. 

"Well,  why  not?  I  think  men  are  the  lords  of 
creation,  and  I  do  like  them  to  have  the  best  of 
everything.  I  like  the  old-fashioned  way  of  doing 
everything  for  one's  men- folk — seeing  that  their 
bags  are  properly  packed  and  their  clothes  kept  in 
perfect  order.  I  can't  bear  the  modern  way  of  let- 
ting a  man  look  after  himself;  it  is  so  nice  to  feel 
that  one's  men  are  dependent  on  one  for  their  com- 
fort." 

Ann  groaned  and,  sitting  down  on  the  rug  pulled 
the  Tatler  into  her  lap. 

"Cat,  d'you  hear  that*?  Lords  of  creation,  in- 
deed!   Those  are  you  sentiments,  too,  aren't  they?" 

The  Tatler  blinked  sleepily,  and  stuck  his  claws 
into  Ann's  arm. 

Ann  pushed  him  away  and  got  up.  "Ah  yes. 
Mother,  I  know  you  of  old.  I  didn't  mind  running 
errands  for  Father  when  he  came  in  tired,  but  I  did 
resent  being  told:     'Run  and  pack  Mark's  bag.' 

'Get  Robbie  a  clean  handkerchief '    That  was 

'fair  ridiculous !'  " 

"Yes,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  boys  were  al- 
ways being  told,  'Give  it  to  Ann;  she's  the  girl.' 
,You  were  utterly  spoiled,  and  there's  one  thing, 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     179 

Ann,  I  must  ask  you.  When  Fm  asking  a  blessing 
for  tea,  don't  go  on  filling  cups." 

*'But  I  don't,"  Ann  said  indignantly,  "though 
what  you  want  with  a  blessing  for  tea,  I  don't  know. 
Nobody  I  ever  heard  of  has  a  blessing  for  tea  except 
Miss  Barbara,  and  I  generally  had  taken  a  large 
bite  out  of  a  scone  before  she  began,  and  it  lay  on 
my  plate  and  looked  at  me  reproachfully.  Poor  Mr. 
Scott  spoke  right  through  your  blessing  to-day;  he 
didn't  know  what  you  were  doing." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sighed  deeply.  "Ah,  well,  Ann,  I 
don't  suppose  I'll  be  with  you  very  long  to  worry 
you  with  my  old-fashioned  ways." 

"Oh,  Mother,  that's  not  fair.  You're  hitting  be- 
low the  belt." 

"But  you  may  be  away  first,"  continued  Mrs. 
Douglas,  "and  then  I  shall  be  left  to  regret." 

"Well,  then,"  said  Ann  flippantly,  "we'll  arrange 
that  neither  of  us  will  regret  anything.  You  and 
Mr.  Scott  made  great  friends.  Mother.  He  has  very 
nice  manners,  hasn't  he^" 

Mrs.  Douglas  laid  down  Hours  of  Silence^  which 
she  had  taken  up  to  begin  her  evening's  reading, 
and  removed  the  large  spectacles  which  made  her 
look  like  a  little  owl. 

"I  liked  him,  Ann.  There  is  something  very  like- 
able about  him.  He  reminded  me  just  a  little  of 
Robbie." 

"I  wondered  if  that  would  strike  you,"  Ann  said. 


i8o   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"It  isn't  that  there  is  any  resemblance,  but  he  has 
some  of  Robbie's  ways.  .  .  .  He  was  tremendously 
interested  about  your  Life^  Mother,  so  I  gave  him 
what  I  had  written  to  look  over.  Oh,  you  needn't 
feel  hurt  about  it.  It's  only  that  he  may  give  me 
some  advice.  He  writes  himself,  you  know.  As 
you  say,  it  is  nice  to  talk  to  a  man  again — one's  own 
kind  of  man.  Mr.  Sharp  is  a  dear,  but  it  isn't  much 
fun  making  conversation  with  him." 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  as  Mrs.  Douglas 
began  to  read  her  evening  portion  out  of  each  of  her 
many  volumes,  and  Ann  sat  watching  the  flames 
leap,  and  thinking,  thinking. 

"Mother,"  she  said  suddenly,  "you  said  a  little 
while  ago  that  I  was  spoiled  as  a  child,  but  I  wasn't. 
Dear  me,  I  was  a  regular  burden  bearer,  and  Mark 
christened  me  The  Patient  Cuddy' !  You  see,  I  was 
hampered  with  always  having  a  small  brother  to  lug 
about;  I  could  never  harden  my  heart  enough  to 
leave  them  at  home.  An  only  girl  in  a  family  of 
brothers  has  really  a  harassed  existence.  It  would 
have  been  different  if  Rosamund  had  lived.  She 
was  too  tiny  to  come  into  our  games,  though  she 
meant  a  great  deal  to  us — ^much  more  than  we 
realised." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laid  down  her  book.  "She  loved 
being  allowed  to  play  with  you,"  she  said,  "and 
you  were  good  about  making  games  that  she  could 
join  in.    But,  somehow,  she  was  more  a  companion 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     181 

to  her  father  and  me  than  your  playfellow.  For 
one  thing,  she  shared  your  father's  love  of  garden- 
ing. The  rest  of  you  helped  sometimes  in  the  gar- 
den, but  you  always  let  it  be  seen  that  it  was  a 
penance.  You  hardly  knew  one  flower  from  an- 
other, and  you  sped  like  arrows  from  a  bow  when- 
ever you  were  released.  But  Rosamund  trotted 
about  happily  for  hours,  utterly  contented  to  be  with 
her  father  and  the  flowers.  We  used  often  to  say 
to  each  other,  your  father  and  I,  how  different  she 
was  to  you  and  the  boys.  You  were  healthy,  ordi- 
nary children  who  never  thought  of  saying  pretty 
things  to  your  parents  or  anyone  else.  You  found 
the  world  so  full  of  a  number  of  things  that  your 
days  were  passed  in  a  sort  of  breathless  investiga- 
tion. Rosamund  was  a  revelation  to  us.  She  was 
rather  dignified  and  aloof  with  strangers,  but  for 
her  own  people  her  heart  was  a  treasure-house  of 
love.  I  never  knew  of  so  young  a  child  having  such 
strong  yet  discerning  affections.  She  wasn't  in  the 
least  priggish;  indeed,  she  could  be  naughty  in  a 
peculiarly  impish  way,  and  you  children  were  al- 
ways teaching  her  rude  expressions,  which  she  used 
to  Marget,  who  adored  her,  but  all  Marget  said  was, 
*D'ye  think  I'm  gaun  to  quarrel  wi'  you,  impident 
little  thing  that  ye  are*?'  She  and  Marget  were 
great  friends,  and  there  was  nothing  she  liked  better 
than  to  help  Marget  work,  and  bake  little  dough 
rabbits  with  currants  for  eyes.    The  big  black  cat — 


i82  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

christened  by  Mark,  'William  Tweezer,  Earl  of 
Scullery' — superintended  operations,  and  Marget 
would  say  to  him  when  he  got  in  the  way,  'Awa'  oot 
and  play  yerseF,  Weellum,  like  a  man.'  We  had  a 
game  that  the  fairy  Whuppetie  Stourie  hid  in  the 
nursery  chimney  and  when  little  girls  were  good 
laid  a  present  on  the  hearth-rug.  I  didn't  realise  it 
was  all  real  to  her  until  Jeanie  Tod  set  the  chimney 
on  fire,  and  Rosamund,  with  a  white  face,  sobbed, 
'Jeanie,  you  forget  I've  a  friend  up  there.'  I  can 
hear  her  voice  now." 

"How  you  remember.  Mother.  I  wish  I  could! 
I  can  see  her  still,  but  I  can't  hear  her  voice.  You 
see,  I  was  only  about  thirteen  when  she  died,  and 
children  forget  so  soon.  I  can  remember  looking 
down  into  her  face  and  thinking  that  her  eyes  were 
like  violets;  and  I  remember  a  little  white  dress 
trimmed  with  'flowering,'  and  a  blue  cloak  with  a 
hood.  I  remember  at  breakfast-time  she  used  to 
walk  round  the  table  and  ask  for  tops  of  eggs.  She 
only  got  a  whole  egg  on  Sundays,  and  she  never  for- 
got to  pray,  'Bless  my  whole  egg  next  Sabbath  day.' 
She  was  a  very  happy  child.  I  think  she  enjoyed 
the  little  short  time  she  had  in  the  world,  but  she 
was  very  shy  and  timid,  wasn't  she*?  You  remem- 
ber, when  Mrs.  Lang  asked  her  to  a  tea-party  alone, 
it  quite  preyed  on  her  mind?  The  day  of  the  party 
she  summoned  up  courage  to  ring  the  Langs'  bell, 
but  when  the  servant  came  she  had  no  words.  Three 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     183 

times  she  rang  the  bell  without  being  able  to  give 
a  message,  and  the  third  time  Mrs.  Lang  came  her- 
self and  said,  *Now,  Rosamund,  you  are  a  naughty 
child,  and  you  must  not  ring  the  bell  again  until  it 
is  time  for  the  party.'  Poor  little  Rosamund  crept 
away  without  ever  being  able  to  explain  that  all 
she  wanted  to  ask  was  that  I  might  go  with  her! 
Rather  unlike  Robbie,  when  Mark  and  I  were  in- 
vited to  a  party,  and  he  called  at  the  house  to  ask 
if  there  had  been  any  mistake  that  he  hadn't  been 
invited." 

"Dear  Robbie,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  then  fell  si- 
lent.   In  a  little  she  spoke  again: 

''Christmas  to  me,  even  now,  always  seems  Rosa- 
mund's time.  It  is  odd  to  think  that  she  was  only 
with  us  for  five  short  years,  and  she  has  been  away 
more  than  twenty,  and  yet  the  thought  of  her  is 
always  with  me.  She  lives  to  me  so  vividly  that 
it  seems  only  yesterday  that  it  all  happened.  As 
Christmas  drew  near,  you  were  all  excited,  but  Rosa- 
mund seemed  utterly  possessed  with  the  spirit  of  the 
season.  She  wanted  to  give  presents  to  every  one 
she  knew,  and  couldn't  understand  why  any  limit 
should  be  put  to  the  size  of  our  Christmas  party. 
She  loved  dolls — unlike  you,  Ann,  who  never  knew 
how  to  hold  a  doll! — and  I  dressed  her  two  great 
big  ones  for  her  fourth  Christmas,  a  wax  one  called 
Muriel,  and  Black  Sam.  Old  Mrs.  Hamilton  in 
the  church  made  her  a  wonderful  rag-doll,  as  big  as 


i84  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

a  baby,  with  arms  and  legs  complete,  only  the  face 
had  a  gruesome  lack  of  profile.  I  dressed  up  like 
Father  Christmas  and  brought  all  the  presents  into 
the  room  in  a  big  basket,  and  made  speeches  as  I 
gave  them  out,  and  Rosamund  was  speechless  with 
delight.  She  could  hardly  tell  me  about  it  when  I 
came  into  the  room  a  few  minutes  later,  and  her 
great  regret  was  that  I  had  happened  to  be  out  of 
the  room;  she  thought  it  was  such  bad  luck  for  me. 
When  she  was  dying  she  said,  'When  Father  Christ- 
mas comes  this  year,  tell  him  you  have  no  Rosa- 
mund, and  ask  him  to  give  my  presents  to  Ann.'  " 

Ann  moved  quickly  in  her  chair,  and  busied  her- 
self for  a  little  in  putting  some  papers  in  order. 
Then  she  burst  out,  "Why  did  she  die.  Mother"? 
What  made  her  ill?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head.  "Ah,  my  dear! 
We  have  these  treasures  in  earthen  vessels.  I  sup- 
pose the  time  had  come  for  us  to  give  her  back.  It 
began  so  simply.  She  was  a  very  healthy  child  and 
rarely  ailed  anything,  but  one  day  she  got  her  feet 
wet  playing  in  the  snow,  and  that  brought  on  a 
slight  chill.  It  seemed  to  be  nothing,  and  passed, 
but  after  that  we  noticed  her  droop  a  little.  I  didn't 
get  the  doctor  at  once,  for  I  had  so  often  got  him  on 
false  pretences,  and  I  knew  he  thought  me  an  ab- 
surdly anxious  mother,  and  when  he  came  I  was 
quite  apologetic,  expecting  to  be  told  I  had  been 
fussing  again.    But  he  didn't  make  light  of  it.    He 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     185 

said  it  was  slight  gastric  fever,  and  she  must  go  to 
bed.  That  was  in  February.  She  seemed  to  get 
over  it  quickly,  and  was  soon  up  and  playing  as 
busily  as  ever,  but  we  noticed  that  she  got  tired- 
We  had  never  heard  the  child  own  to  being  tired 
before,  and  it  chilled  our  hearts  to  see  her  go  and 
sit  down  quietly  in  her  little  chair.  Then  we  found 
that  her  temperature  had  begun  to  rise  in  the  after- 
noon. In  the  morning  it  was  subnormal,  but  as 
the  day  advanced  it  crept  up.  We  got  one  specialist 
after  another,  but  no  one  seemed  able  to  stop  the 
horrible  creeping  fever.  It  was  a  very  hard  win- 
ter; the  snow  lay  on  the  ground  well  into  March, 
and  I  used  to  sit  with  Rosamund  on  my  knee  at  the 
window  while  you  children  built  snow-men  to  amuse 
her.  There  were  some  little  wild  kittens  that  had 
been  turned  out  of  their  home  in  a  stable,  and  Rosa- 
mund worried  about  them,  so  you  built  a  little  house 
for  them  of  orange  boxes  in  the  shrubbery  and  made 
it  very  cosy  with  a  bit  of  old  carpet.  She  could 
watch  them  creep  in  and  get  warm.  On  your  walks 
you  always  went  to  the  streets  so  that  you  might 
glue  your  faces  to  shop  windows  and  decide  what 
your  scraped-together  pennies  would  buy  for  Rosa- 
mund." 

"I  know,"  said  Ann.  "One  day,  to  my  joy,  I 
found  in  a  small  grocer's  shop  tiny  pots  of  jam  and 
marmalade  that  cost  one  penny  each,  and  Rosa- 
mund loved  them  for  her  dolls'  tea-parties.    If  we 


i86  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

could  find  anything  to  interest  or  amuse  her,  we  were 
so  proud.  At  first  she  was  able  to  have  us  play 
quietly  with  her,  then  she  began  not  to  be  able  to 
walk  about,  and  Mark  carried  her  round  the  garden 
to  look  at  the  snowdrops  and  crocuses.  We  never 
owned  to  ourselves  or  each  other  that  she  wouldn't 
recover.    We  said^  'Rosamund  will  be  all  right  when 

the  spring  comes,'  but  the  spring  came Mother, 

it  must  have  been  terrible  for  you  to  see  the  spring 
flowers  come  and  your  little  Rose-of-the-world 
fade." 

Mrs.  Douglas  covered  her  eyes  for  a  minute  with 
a  hand  that  shook,  but  when  she  spoke  her  voice 
was  steady. 

"It  was  the  most  beautiful  spring  and  summer 
that  I  think  I  ever  remember,  and  we  all  went  away 
to  Etterick  in  April.  It  seemed  that  the  sun  and 
the  fresh  winds  and  the  quiet  of  the  hills  must  heal, 
and  at  first  she  did  seem  to  improve.  But  it  was 
only  for  a  little.  The  dreaded  fever  returned,  and 
every  Monday,  when  your  father  came  back  from 
preaching  in  Glasgow,  he  knew  her  to  be  losing. 
She  liked  being  out  all  the  time,  and  our  days  were 
spent  by  the  bumside  or  on  the  hills.  We  had  an 
old  pony  and  a  low  basket  carriage  which  she  found 
comfortable,  and  we  sometimes  drove  by  the  banks 
of  the  Tweed  until  we  came  to  some  place  which 
she  liked  specially,  when  we  would  lift  her  out  into 
a  nest  of  cushions  and  she  could  sit  and  listen  to  the 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     187 

voice  of  the  Tweed  as  it  slipped  past.  And  we  had 
lunch  with  us,  and  the  boys  fished,  and  you  read 
aloud  fairy-tales,  and  we  were  almost  happy  in  spite 
of  the  cloud  that  covered  us.  .  .  .  She  had  her  'well 
days'  and  her  'ill  days,'  but  she  never  complained ; 
indeed,  I  think  her  patience  was  almost  the  hardest 
thing  to  bear.  One  day  she  said  to  me,  Tm  talking 
to  Whuppetie,  Mother.  I  talk  to  God  when  I'm 
ill  and  to  Whuppetie  when  I'm  well.'  The  year 
before,  her  great  joy  had  been  to  go  to  the  water 
meadow,  where  the  banks  of  the  ditch  were  blue 
with  forget-me-nots.  I  had  always  avoided  the 
place  in  her  illness,  and  she  had  never  asked  to  be 
taken ;  but  one  day,  when  we  were  driving  past,  we 
heard  the  little  Crichton  girls  say  to  their  mother, 
'Come  after  us  when  you're  ready.  Mummy;  we're 
going  down  to  the  water  meadow  to  get  forget-me- 
nots.'  Rosamund  turned  and  looked  at  me,  and 
there  was  such  utter  sadness  in  her  eyes  that  my 
heart  seemed  as  if  it  must  break.  .  .  .  One  very 
lovely  day  in  June  we  had  been  out  till  quite  late, 
for  she  wanted  to  see  the  sunset.  It  was  so  won- 
derful in  its  rose  and  gold  and  amethyst  that  Rosa- 
mund, looking  with  wistful  eyes  into  the  glory,  said 
that  she  thought  she  could  see  the  twelve  gates, 
every  gate  a  pearl.  The  beauty  seemed  to  comfort 
her,  but  she  said  to  me :  'Mother,  if  you  could  only 
go  with  me!  If  there  are  twelve  gates,  how  shall 
I  know  which  one  to  watch  for  you  at?'  .  .  .  Mark 


i88  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

carried  her  up  to  bed  that  night,  and  you  all  sat 
about  on  the  floor  for  a  little,  talking  and  laughing, 
and  she  smiled  at  you  happily  while  she  sipped  her 
milk.  It  was  a  very  hot  night,  and  a  corn-crake 
was  calling  in  a  hayfield  near  the  window.  Rosa- 
mund slept  a  little,  and  woke  about  three.  I 
sponged  her  face  and  hands  to  cool  her,  and  put 
lavender  water  on  her  pillows;  the  windows  were 
wide  open,  but  she  seemed  to  be  breathless.  Her 
father  heard  us  moving,  and  came  in  from  the  dress- 
ing-room, and  Rosamund  held  out  her  hands  to  him. 
The  dawn  was  beginning  to  break,  and  he  said.  The 
night  has  passed,  darling;  it  is  morning.'  She 
nodded.  'There's  that  corn-crake  corn-craking  yet,' 
she  said,  and  then  she  gave  a  little  cry.  I  caught 
her  in  my  arms,  and  her  head  fell  on  my  breast  like 
a  dead  bird's.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

WITH  the  last  days  of  November  winter  de- 
scended with  real  earnest  on  the  Green  Glen. 
For  thirty-six  hours  snow  fell,  blotting  out  the  paths, 
piling  great  drifts  in  the  hollows,  making  the  high 
road  almost  level  with  the  tops  of  the  hedges.  The 
carts  from  the  shops,  the  butcher,  the  baker,  the 
grocer,  had  to  remain  in  the  town,  the  postman  could 
not  come  near,  Mr.  Sharp  stayed  snugly  in  his 
Manse,  and  Dreams  was  entirely  cut  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  world. 

When  the  frost  came,  hardening  the  snow,  Ann 
got  out  her  toboggan  and  spent  glorious  hours  flying 
down  the  hillside  and  toilful  ones  dragging  the  to- 
boggan up  again.  Glowing  with  health  and  self- 
satisfaction,  she  came  in  in  the  frosty  twilight,  to 
drink  tea  and  upbraid  her  mother  for  electing  to 
remain  by  the  fire. 

"How  can  you  frowst  by  the  fire,  Mother,  when 
you  might  be  out  looking  at  the  most  glorious  sun- 
set and  drinking  in  great  draughts  of  air  that  is 
like  champagne*?  What"?  Cold?  Not  a  bit, 
once  you  are  out;  indeed,  I  was  almost  too  warm. 
The  mistake  about  tobogganing  is  that  the  rush 

down  is  so  short  and  the  toil  up  so  long.     I  must 

189 


igo  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

demand,  like  the  Irishman,  that  all  roads  be  either 
level  or  downhill.  What  a  delicious  muffin  this  is! 
May  I  have  the  jam?' 

Ann  rose  to  get  herself  another  cup  of  tea,  and 
looked  out  of  the  window  on  the  way.  "It's  bitter 
hard  to-night — you  know  the  frost  is  very  severe 
when  the  snow  creaks.  'Hech,  sirs,  it's  winter 
fairly.'  Do  come  and  look  out.  Mother.  It's  glo- 
rious being  in  Dreams  in  snow — like  living  in  the 
heart  of  a  crystal." 

Mrs.  Douglas  shivered  as  she  looked  out  at  the 
waste  of  snow.  "Draw  the  curtains,  Ann,  and  shut 
it  out.  I  never  did  like  snow :  cold,  unfriendly  stuff, 
making  everything  uncomfortable,  blocking  roads 
and  killing  sheep  and  delaying  trains;  and  when  it 
goes  away,  burst  pipes  and  dripping  misery.  But 
you  children  always  loved  it.  At  Kirkcaple,  when 
it  came,  you  were  out  before  breakfast  snowballing 
the  milkman." 

Ann  finished  her  tea  and  lay  back  in  her  chair 
regarding  her  mother,  who  was  finishing  her  "read- 
ing" for  the  day,  taking  sips  of  tea  and  reading 
Golden  Grain  at  the  same  time. 

"Mother,"  said  Ann,  "did  you  ever  give  your- 
self good  times*?  You  began  your  married  life  with- 
out a  honeymoon,  and  I'm  afraid  you  continued  on 
the  same  principle.  I  don't  seem  to  remember  that 
you  ever  got  rid  of  us  all  and  had  a  real  holiday 
alone  with  Father." 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     191 

Mrs.  Douglas  finished  what  she  was  reading  and 
laid  the  little  book  on  the  pile  before  she  answered 
her  daughter.  Then  she  took  off  her  spectacles  and 
took  up  her  cup  of  tea,  and  said: 

"Oh  yes ;  when  Jim  was  a  baby  we  went  to  Lon- 
don for  a  fortnight  to  stay  with  an  uncle  and  aunt 
of  your  father's.  Don't  you  remember  them? 
Uncle  John  and  Aunt  John,  we  always  called  them 
— why,  I  don't  know.  Uncle  John  was  rather  old 
when  he  married,  and  had  a  weak  heart,  and  Aunt 
John  warned  me  that  it  was  safer  not  to  contradict 
him.  Not  that  it  would  have  entered  into  my  head 
to  do  such  a  thing.  I  was  in  too  great  awe  of  them 
both.  They  were  a  handsome  couple,  and  Uncle 
John  had  a  pair  of  trousers  for  every  day  of  the 
week — shepherd-tartan  ones  for  Sunday.  Aunt  was 
very  tall,  with  a  Roman  nose,  her  hair  parted  at  one 
side,  and  was  always  richly  dressed  in  silks  that 
rustled. 

"They  were  devoted  to  each  other,  and  made  such 
a  touching  pair  of  middle-aged  lovers,  coquetting 
with  each  other  in  a  way  that  amazed  us,  staid  mar- 
ried people  that  we  were — I  suppose  I  was  about 
five-and-twenty  then.  I  overheard  Aunt  say  to 
Uncle  one  day  when  she  came  in  with  a  new  hat: 
*How  do  you  like  my  chapeau^  Jackie?'  and  always 
at  breakfast  she  greeted  him  with  a  resounding  kiss, 
as  if  she  had  never  set  eyes  on  him  from  the  night 
before.     We  must  have  been  a  great  nuisance  to 


192   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

them,  such  a  countrified  couple  as  we  were.  Your 
father  was  always  fit  to  go  anywhere,  but  I  must 
have  been  a  quaint  figure,  in  a  lavender  dress 
trimmed  with  ruching,  and  a  black  silk  dolman  and 
a  lavender  bonnet.  They  were  the  efforts  of  the 
little  dressmaker  in  Kirkcaple,  one  of  our  church 
members,  and  we  had  thought  them  almost  alarm- 
ingly smart  in  the  parlour  behind  the  shop ;  but  when 
I  saw  myself  reflected  in  long  mirrors  and  shop  win- 
dows, I  had  my  doubts." 

Ann  sat  forward  in  her  chair,  her  eyes  alight 
with  interest. 

"I  had  forgotten  about  the  London  visit.  Had 
you  a  good  time'?    Were  they  kind  to  you*?'* 

They  were  kindness  itself.  Every  morning  Uncle 
planned  out  things  for  us  to  do,  and  arranged  that 
we  should  lunch  somewhere  with  him — that  was  to 
save  our  pockets.  And  Aunt's  housekeeping  seemed 
to  me  on  a  scale  nothing  short  of  magnificent.  When 
I  went  marketing  with  her  it  thrilled  me  to  see  her 
buy  salmon  and  turbot  as  I  might  have  bought 
'penny  baddies,'  and  she  seemed  to  me  to  give  a  din- 
ner-party every  night.  And  the  servants  were  such 
aloof,  superior  creatures.  It  was  all  very  awe-in- 
spiring to  me,  a  timorous  little  country  mouse." 

Ann  laughed.  "  'Wee  modest  crimson-tippit 
beastie,'  as  Charlotte  renders  Burns.  But  tell  me 
what  you  saw,  Mother.  All  the  sights,  I  am  sure. 
But  did  you  do  anything  exciting?" 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     193 

"Oh  yes.  We  went  to  hear  Spurgeon,  and  one 
evening  Uncle  took  us  to  the  Crystal  Palace  and  we 
saw  fireworks." 

Ann  hooted.  "Mother,  you  are  a  pet!  I  asked 
you  if  you  had  done  anything  exciting — ^meaning 
had  you  seen  Ellen  Terry  and  Irving  and  heard  Patti 
sing — and  you  tell  me  you  heard  Spurgeon  and  went 
to  fireworks  at  the  Crystal  Palace !" 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  laugh,"  Mrs.  Doug- 
las said,  rather  affronted.  "These  were  the  things 
we  liked  to  do.  At  least,  I  think  what  your  father 
really  liked  best  was  to  poke  about  in  the  old  book- 
shops, and  he  did  enjoy  the  good  food.  I  liked  it 
all,  but  the  going  home  was  best  of  all.  I  had  felt 
very  small  and  shabby  in  London,  but  when  we 
came  off  that  long  night  journey  and  found  you  all 
waiting  for  us  as  fresh  as  the  morning,  you  and 
Mark  and  Robbie  and  Jim,  I  felt  the  richest  woman 
in  the  world.  I  quite  sympathised  with  the  mother 
of  the  Gracchi,  though  before  I  had  always  thought 
her  rather  a  fool." 

"Yes,"  Ann  said  profoundly.  "Sometimes  things 
you  have  read  and  thought  merely  silly  suddenly 
become  true — and  did  the  London  fortnight  last  you 
a  long  time*?" 

"The  next  summer  I  had  my  trunk  packed  to  go 
with  your  father  to  Switzerland,  but  at  the  last  mo- 
ment I  found  I  couldn't  leave  you,  and  he  had  to  go 
alone.    It  was  very  silly,  but,  anyway,  I  always  saw 


194   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

that  he  had  a  good  holiday,  and  I  was  happy  with 
you  children  at  Etterick.  But  as  you  grew  older  and 
went  away  to  school  I  often  got  away  for  a  little. 
One  great  ploy  was  to  go  to  the  Assembly;  some- 
times we  stayed  with  people,  but  we  greatly  pre- 
ferred to  have  rooms  in  a  Princes  Street  hotel.  I 
don't  mean  to  lichtly  people's  hospitality,  but  it  is 
a  relief  when  you  come  in  tired  not  to  have  to  put  on 
a  bright,  interested  expression  and  tell  your  hostess 
all  about  it." 

"I  do  so  agree,"  said  Ann;  "  'a  bright,  interested 
expression'  is  far  too  often  demanded  of  ministers' 
wives  and  families.  What  a  joy  to  scowl  and  look 
listless  at  a  time.  You  know.  Mums,  a  manse  is  a 
regular  school  for  diplomatists.  It  is  a  splendid 
training.  One  learns  to  talk  to  and  understand  all 
sorts  of  people — just  think  what  an  advantage  that 
gives  one  over  people  who  have  only  known  inti- 
mately their  own  class!  And  you  haven't  time  to 
think  about  yourself;  you  are  so  on  the  alert  to  avoid 
hurting  anyone's  feelings.  You  have  to  try  and  re- 
member the  affairs  of  each  different  member,  how 
many  children  they  possess,  and  all  about  them,  and 
be  careful  to  ask  at  the  right  moment  for  the  wel- 
fare of  each.  To  say  to  a  very  stout  lady  living 
alone,  'Are  you  all  well'?'  savours  of  impertinence. 
.  .  .  Yes,  well,  you  went  to  a  hotel  to  avoid  having 
to  look  'bright  and  interested,'  wise  people ;  and  what 
did  you  do  there  *?" 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     195 

"But,  Ann,"  Mrs.  Douglas  protested,  having  been 
struck  with  her  daughter's  remarks  on  her  early 
training,  "you  spoke  as  if  you  were  brought  up  to  be 
hypocrites,  and  I'm  sure  that  is  the  very  last  thing 
your  father  and  I  wanted  you  to  be " 

"Oh,  well,"  said  Ann  lightly,  "the  best  people  are 
all  more  or  less  hypocrites.  The  world  would  be  a 
most  unpleasant  place  if  we  had  all — like  Lo,  the 
poor  Indian — untutored  minds  and  manners.  Hon- 
esty is  sometimes  almost  a  crime,  and  the  man  who 
feels  it  necessary  to  speak  what  he  is  pleased  to  call 
his  mind  in  season  and  out  of  season  is  a  public  nui- 
sance. Hold  your  peace  if  you  have  nothing  pleas- 
ant to  say.  People  need  encouraging  far  oftener 
than  you  think;  even  bumptious  people  are  often 
only  bumptious  because  they  are  uncertain  of  them- 
selves. As  the  White  Queen  said,  'A  little  kindness 
and  putting  their  hair  in  curl  papers'  would  work 
wonders  for  them.  But  I  don't  know  why  I  am 
chattering  like  a  swallow  when  what  I  want  is  to 
hear  about  you  and  Father  at  the  Assembly." 

Mrs.  Douglas  had  taken  up  her  knitting,  and  with 
a  happy  smile  on  her  face  and  her  fingers  working 
busily  she  said: 

"I  remember  one  particularly  happy  Assembly. 
Davie  was  about  five,  and  you  were  at  home  to  keep 
things  right,  so  my  mind  was  quite  at  ease,  and  I 
had  got  a  smart  new  coat  and  skirt — black,  trimmed 


196   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

with  grey  cloth  and  braided,  and  a  black  hat  with 
grey  feathers." 

"A  most  ministerial  outfit,"  said  Ann,  making  a 
face.  "I  would  rather  have  seen  you  in  the  lavender 
and  the  dolman." 

"It  was  very  suitable  for  a  minister's  wife,  and 
it  must  have  been  becoming,  for  almost  every  one 
we  met  said  I  looked  so  young,  and  that  pleased  your 
father,  though,  of  course,  it  was  nonsense.  We  were 
in  a  mood  to  enjoy  everything — those  May  morn- 
ings when  we  came  down  to  breakfast,  hungry  and 
well  and  eager  for  a  new  day,  and  sat  at  a  little  table 
in  a  bow  window  looking  out  on  the  Castle,  and  ate 
fresh  herring  'new  cam'  frae  the  Forth,'  and  bacon 
and  eggs  and  hot  rolls." 

Mrs.  Douglas  stopped  and  said  solemnly : 

"Ann,  if  I  had  a  lot  of  money,  do  you  know  what 
I  would  do?  I  would  send  fifty  pounds  anonymous- 
ly to  all  the  ministers — not,  of  course,  to  those  with 
big  stipends,  and  certainly  not  to  the  ones  with  rich 
wives — to  let  the  minister  and  his  wife  have  a  week 
at  the  Assembly.  It  would  pay  their  fare  and  hotel 
bill,  and  leave  something  over  to  shop  with.  Dear 
me,  I  wonder  rich  people  don't  give  themselves  a 
good  time  by  doing  happy  things  like  that." 

"It's  a  game  that  never  palls,"  Ann  said;  "plan- 
ning what  you  would  do  if  you  got  a  sudden  fortune. 
I'm  quite  sure  the  real  owners  of  riches  don't  get 
half  as  much  pleasure  out  of  their  wealth  as  the 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     197 

paupers  who  have  it  only  in  dreams.  And  what  fol- 
lowed after  the  large  breakfast?  Did  you  spend  the 
whole  day  in  the  assembling  of  yourselves  together*? 
Attending  the  Assembly  is  like  some  sort  of  insidi- 
ous drug :  the  more  you  do  it,  the  more  you  want  to 
do  it.  Since  I  have  been  your  companion  at  its  de- 
liberations I  have  found  that  I  can  sit  in  it  quite 
happily  for  hours.  You  wouldn't  miss  the  Assem- 
bly week  for  a  lot  even  now,  would  you?  It  is  odd 
how  the  sight  of  ministers  in  the  mass  seems  to  do 
you  good.  Absolutely  you  get  quite  sleek  by  merely 
looking  at  them.  Do  you  remember  when  you  were 
so  very  ill  in  London  you  kept  worrying  Sir  Arm- 
strong to  know  if  you  would  be  better  for  the  As- 
sembly, and  the  poor  doctor  said  to  Mark,  *Your 
mother  is  very  anxious  to  go  to  some  assembly;  but 
she  couldn't  danceT  " 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed  and  then  sighed.  "I  enjoy 
it  still,"  she  said;  "but  the  Assembly  Hall  is  a  place 
of  ghosts  to  me  now.  There  are  so  few  of  the  faces 
that  once  I  knew.  I  look  up  at  my  old  place  in  the 
Ladies'  Gallery — I  never  aspired  to  the  Moderator's 
Gallery  in  those  days.  I  always  sat  in  the  same 
seat,  and  then  your  father  knew  where  to  look  up  and 
smile  to  me  during  debates.  I  often  sat  very  nerv- 
ous, for  he  had  a  dreadful  way  of  always  being  on 
the  wrong  side — I  mean  by  that  the  unpopular  side 
— and  it  wasn't  nice  for  me  to  hear  him  shouted  at. 
I  thought  he  cared  far  too  little  for  what  people 


198  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

thought;  he  had  no  interest  in  which  way  the  cat 
was  going  to  jump;  he  never  thought  of  taking  the 
safe  course  simply  because  it  was  safe  and  would 
pay  best.  I  remember  after  one  stormy  debate  in 
which  he  had  held  the  most  unpopular  view  a  lady 
beside  me  said,  'Can  you  tell  me  who  that  un- 
pleasant minister  is'?'  and  I  said,  1  think  he  comes 
from  Glasgow/  But  my  sins  found  me  out  almost 
at  once,  for,  on  his  way  out  to  vote,  your  father  stood 
and  grinned  up  at  me,  looking  like  a  mischievous 
schoolboy  who  knows  he's  going  to  get  a  row,  and  I 
had  to  smile  at  him — and  the  lady  beside  me  glared 
at  us  both  suspiciously." 

"It  was  odd,"  said  Arm,  "that  in  public  he  was 
such  a  fighter,  for  in  his  home  life,  if  ever  man 
carried  in  his  right  hand  gentle  peace,  it  was  my 
Father.  There  was  a  time,  when  Mark  and  I  first 
grew  up,  that  we  thought  we  knew  infinitely  more 
about  everything  in  heaven  and  earth  than  our 
parents.  There  was  a  time  when  Father's  beliefs 
filled  me  with  a  kind  of  tender  scorn :  they  were  so 
hopelessly  out  of  date.  I  used  to  argue  with  him  in 
my  pert  way  that  Free  Will  and  Election  could  not 
be  reconciled,  and  he  would  reply,  with  a  twinkle, 
*Ann,  I  sometimes  think  you  are  a  very  ignorant 
creature.  Give  me  another  cup  of  tea.'  I  remem- 
ber Father's  innocence  amused  us  very  much.  He 
was  so  far  away  from  the  ugliness  and  the  vulgarity 
and  the  idiotic  smartness  of  modem  life.    He  once 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     199 

heard  Robbie  singing  an  absurd  song,  and  asked  him 
to  repeat  the  words — I  forget  what  they  were,  some- 
thing very  silly  and  rather  funny  about: 

'How  often  to  myself  I've  said, 
Cheer  up.  Cully,  you'll  soon  be  dead, 
A  short  life  but  a  gay  one.' 

Father  listened  and  said  gravely,  'If  the  wretched 
fellow  had  had  any  hope  of  an  after  life  .  .  J 
"And  we  said,  Isn't  Father  quamtV  " 
"And  when  he  was  no  longer  there  to  stand  up  for 
his  old-fashioned  beliefs  there  wasn't  one  of  us  but 
would  have  died  gladly  for  those  same  beliefs  be- 
cause they  had  been  his.  .  .  .  When  Robbie  got 
the  cable  of  his  death  he  wrote  from  India:  'The 
best  man  in  Scotland  is  gone — ^now  he  knows  what 
his  beliefs  meant  to  all  of  us' ;  and  Davie,  that  ad- 
vanced young  thinker,  once  came  back  from  hearing 
a  preacher  of  renown,  and  said  fiercely,  'No,  I  didn't 
like  him.    He  sneered  at  the  Shorter  Catechism^  " 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

HERE'S  a  nice  state  of  things,"  said 
Ann. 

"Is  anything  wrong  *?"  asked  her  mother. 

"Well,  I  don't  know  whether  you  would  call  it 
wrong  or  right.  Mr.  Philip  Scott  sends  me  back  my 
MS.,  with  his  criticism  of  it.  I  agree  with  most  of 
the  things  he  says:  my  language  is  too  incorrigibly 
noble,  my  quotations  are  very  frequent " 

"But  if  they're  good  quotations,"  Mrs.  Douglas 
interrupted. 

"Oh,  they're  good  quotations.  'It  was  the  best 
butter,'  as  the  poor  March  Hare  said.  But  what  he 
objects  to  most  is  the  sweetness  of  it.  He  says,  Tut 
more  acid  into  it.'  " 

"Into  me,  does  he  mean^" 

"I  suppose  so.  Mr.  Scott  evidently  finds  you  in- 
sipid. We  must  change  that  at  once.  Tell  me,  now, 
about  all  the  people  you  hated  and  who  hated  you." 

Mrs.  Douglas  looked  bewildered,  and  more  than 
a  little  indignant.  "Nonsense,  Aim.  I'm  sure 
I'm  very  glad  to  hear  you  have  made  me  sweet 
— anything  else  would  have  been  most  undutiful; 
and  as  for  hating  people,  I  never  was  any  good  at 
that.     I  couldn't  keep  up  grudges,  though  I  was 

200 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     201 

sometimes  very  angry  at  people.  I  dare  say  it  was 
a  weakness  in  my  nature.  But  I  think,  if  Mr.  Scott 
Is  to  be  allowed  to  criticise,  I  might  be  allowed  to 
read  my  own  hifeT 

"It's  so  dull^'  said  Ann,  looking  discontentedly  at 
the  MS.  "And  you're  not  a  dull  woman,  Mother! 
Rather  a  comic,  really.    See,  read  for  yourself." 

Ann  plumped  the  packet  on  to  her  mother's  lap 
and  retired  to  the  fender-stool  with  the  Times  \  but 
she  could  hardly  have  done  justice  to  the  leaders,  for 
her  eyes  often  wandered  from  the  printed  page  to  the 
expressive  face  of  her  mother  reading  her  own  Life, 

For  half  an  hour  Ann  waited;  then  her  patience 
gave  out,  and  she  leant  forward  and  put  her  hand 
across  the  page. 

"That's  enough.  Mums.  Surely  you  can  tell  me 
now  how  you  think  it  goes." 

Mrs.  Douglas  smiled  at  her  daughter.  "Why  did 
you  do  that^    Fm  enjoying  it  immensely,  and ^" 

"Oh,  if  anybody  could  find  it  interesting,  you 
would;  but  don't  you  find  it  rather  stilted?" 

"Not  stilted  exactly,  but  if  you  would  write  in  a 
more  homely  way,  it  might  be  better.  Take  the 
reader  more  into  your  confidence.  I'm  not  clever 
enough  to  explain  quite  what  I  mean;  but  I  think 
you  are  writing  from  the  outside,  as  it  were.  Try 
to  be  more — is  subjective  the  word  I  want?  And 
don't  say  too  much  about  me.  After  all,  my  life  was 
my  husband  and  the  children.     Write  about  your 


202  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

father  and  the  boys.  Never  were  brothers  more 
loved  by  a  sister.  As  for  Davie — you  brought  him 
up." 

Ann's  eyes  filled  suddenly  with  tears,  but  in  a 
minute  she  said  lightly : 

"You  see,  Mother,  Mr.  Scott  asks  what  I  am 
working  up  to  in  this  Life  of  yours;  how  am  I  going 
to  finish  it,  he  wants  to  know.  I  hadn't  thought  of 
that.  I  was  just  going  to  leave  loose  ends — like  life. 
I  suppose  there  ought  to  be  something — some  idea 
that  binds  the  whole  thing  together.  Oh,  it  is  all 
too  difficult.  I'd  better  burn  all  that  Fve  written, 
and  start  again  in  an  entirely  new  way.  How  would 
it  do  to  put  your  life  into  scenes?  The  young  girl 
in  a  royal  blue  silk  dress  and  a  locket  and  a  black 
velvet  ribbon,  meeting  her  future  husband.  The 
wedding.  A  nursery  scene — very  effective  this! — 
and  then  we  might  have  scenes  from  your  church  life 
— ^you  holding  a  Mothers*  Meeting  or  a  Girls'  Club, 
or  your  first  address  to  the  Fellowship  meeting.  Do 
you  remember  you  began  (as  you  begin  most  things) 
with  a  deep  sigh,  and  it  sounded  rather  like  Hooch, 
and  Robbie  said  you  reminded  him  of  Harry 
Lauder?"  Ann  chuckled  at  the  recollection,  and 
her  mother  said : 

"No  wonder  I  was  nervous.  It  was  a  great  ordeal 
to  speak  before  you  scoffing  young  things.  No;  I 
don't  like  the  idea  of  'scenes.'  I  prefer  it  as  it  is. 
How  far  arc  you  on?" 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     203 

"I've  got  us  all  at  school,  and  I  was  going  to 
write  about  Davie  being  bom.  It  was  the  summer 
after  Rosamund  died,  wasn't  it?  I  was  at  school 
when  I  got  the  news,  and  some  of  the  girls  condoled 
with  me,  and  said  a  new  baby  in  the  house  would  be 
a  dreadful  nuisance,  and  I  pretended  to  be  bored  by 
the  prospect,  when  really  I  could  hardly  contain 
my  excitement.  I  had  to  get  home  for  a  week-end 
to  see  him." 

*Toor  little  baby,  to  think  that  we  were  actually 
disappointed  when  he  came.  We  had  wanted  an- 
other girl  so  much,  and  a  fourth  boy  seemed  rather 
unnecessary.  Of  course  that  was  only  at  the  very 
begirming.  He  was  the  plainest  looking  baby  I  ever 
saw,  and  we  would  not  have  had  him  in  the  very 
least  different." 

"I  thought  he  was  lovely,"  said  Ann.  "When 
Mark  saw  him  for  the  first  time,  he  said,  "Hullo, 
Peter,'  and  Peter  he  was  called  for  years.  When 
I  came  home  from  school  he  was  about  three  years, 
and  he  became  my  special  charge.  You  were  so  very 
busy  at  that  time  with  the  house  and  church  work, 
as  well  as  a  great  scheme  that  the  Member  of  Parlia- 
ment for  the  district  started  to  teach  working  women 
how  to  make  savoury  dinners  out  of  nothing.  You 
were  so  keen  about  it  that  you  tried  all  the  new 
dishes  on  your  family,  and  we  nearly  perished  as  a 
family.  I  can  remember  scwie  of  the  dishes.  Stuffed 
cod's  head — one  glance  at  its  gruesome  countenance 


204  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

was  enough.  Mock  kidney  soup,  made  with  grated 
liver,  which,  instead  of  being  the  rich  brown  proper 
to  kidney  soup,  was  a  sort  of  olive  green.  Sea-pie 
— so-called,  Mark  said,  because  the  sea  was  a  handy 
place  when  you  had  eaten  it.  I  once  went  with  you 
to  see  a  demonstration  by  the  principal  cooking 
teacher,  a  buxom  lady  with  quantities  of  glossy  black 
hair  coiled  round  her  head.  She  showed  us  first  what 
she  called  'a  pretty  puddin'.'  Instead  of  sugar  she 
had  grated  carrots  in  it,  or  something  surprisingly 
like  that.  Then  she  made  shortbread,  and  when  the 
cakes  were  finished  and  ready  to  go  into  the  oven 
she  wanted  something  to  prick  them  with,  and 
nothing  was  at  hand.  She  wasn't  easily  beaten,  for 
I  saw  her  withdraw  a  hairpin  from  the  coils  on  her 
head  and  prick  them  with  that.  When  they  were 
taken  from  the  oven,  and  I  saw  that  they  were  to  be 
handed  round  and  tasted,  I  unobtrusively  withdrew. 
You  had  noticed  nothing,  and  ate  your  bit  quite 
happily." 

"Oh,  Ann,  you  always  saw  far  too  much.  That's 
all  nonsense  about  the  things  we  made.  Every- 
thing was  excellent  and  very  cheap,  and  the  women 
in  the  district  enjoyed  the  lectures  amazingly,  and 
constantly  asked  to  have  them  repeated.  I  enjoyed 
them  myself.  Anything  to  do  with  cooking  interests 
me,  and  I  read  every  recipe  I  see." 

"You  are  the  sort  of  guest.  Mother,  who  would 
appreciate  a  cookery  book  in  her  bedroom.    It  seems 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     205 

an  odd  taste  to  me.  I  can  make  porridge,  smooth 
and  soft,  with  no  knots,  and  fry  quite  nice  bacon  and 
eggs,  and  I  can  make  some  rather  smart  meringuey 
puddings,  and  there  I  end.  D'you  remember  how 
difficult  it  was  to  get  Davie  to  eat  when  he  was  tiny? 
I  had  to  feed  him  with  every  meal,  or  I  don't  think 
he  would  have  eaten  anything.  He  was  such  a  thin 
little  slip  of  a  thing — like  an  elf.  At  one  time  I 
got  so  desperate  about  his  thinness  that  I  took  to 
rubbing  him  all  over  every  night  with  olive  oil. 
What  a  mess  it  made  of  everything !  We  took  tre- 
mendous care  of  him,  didn't  we?  He  never  went 
out  in  his  pram  with  only  the  nursemaid;  I  gener- 
ally went,  too,  in  case  anything  happened  to  him. 
It's  a  wonder  to  me  that  we  didn't  spoil  him  utterly." 

"He  was  a  dear,  ugly  wee  laddie,"  Mrs.  Douglas 
said.  "When  Mark  came  down  from  Oxford  he 
used  to  sit  and  study  him  from  the  other  side  of  the 
table,  and  say,  'How  has  that  child  acquired  such  a 
Mongolian  cast  of  countenance?'  " 

"It  was  too  bad,"  said  Ann,  "and  Davie  so  ad- 
miring of  Mark  and  all  his  Oxford  friends.  He  used 
to  amuse  them  a  lot.  I  once  overheard  him  explain 
to  a  man  how  he  happened  to  live  with  us.  *I  was 
playing  quite  quietly  in  heaven  one  day  when  God 
came  up  to  me  and  said,  "Peter,  you've  to  go  and 
live  with  the  Douglases."  I  said.  The  Douglases! 
Good  Lord!'  The  weary  boredom  in  his  voice  was 
delightful." 


2o6  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"Many  a  fright  he  gave  me,"  said  Davie's  mother. 
"He  picked  up  the  most  extraordinary  expressions, 
and  seemed  to  know  when  to  use  them  with  the 
most  disastrous  effect.  By  the  time  Davie  was  bom 
I  had  grown  tired  of  training,  besides  it  was  impos- 
sible to  do  anything  with  him  when  you  older  chil- 
dren, who  should  have  known  better,  laughed  at  and 
encouraged  him.    He  was  a  plaything  to  you  all." 

"Yes,"  said  Ann;  "there's  something  about  the 
baby  of  a  family  that's  different.  The  youngest 
never  grows  up,  and  to  each  of  us  Davie  seemed  al- 
most more  a  son  than  a  brother,  and  we  never  lost  for 
him — even  when  he  was  grown  up  and  a  soldier — 
the  almost  passionate  tenderness  that  we  had  for  the 
little  delicate  boy.  He  was  the  delight  of  our  lives, 
always.  I  remember  when  I  arrived  in  India  almost 
the  first  thing  Robbie  wanted  to  be  told  was  Davie's 
latest  sayings.  He  had  a  name  for  each  of  us  pe- 
culiarly his  own.  Nobody  ever  called  me  'Nana' 
but  Davie,  and  why  he  christened  Jim  'Ney'  no  one 
ever  knew.  But,  Mother,  it  was  only  as  a  baby  that 
he  was  so  very  plain.  Later  he  developed  a  sort  of 
horsey  look,  and  we  dressed  him  in  a  'horsey'  way, 
with  a  snooty  bormet  and  a  fawn  overcoat.  I  re- 
member he  got  a  very  neat  suit  to  go  to  a  party  at 
Anthony's  house,  his  first  real  party — brown  with  a 
corduroy  waistcoat — which  he  described  in  imitation 
of  Mark  and  his  friends  as  'me  blood  waistcoat' — 
and  short,  tight  trousers.    As  we  dressed  him  we  no- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     207 

ticed  that  the  shirt  he  was  wearing  had  been  patched 
at  the  elbow,  but  it  was  clean,  and  we  didn't  change 
it.  When  he  came  home  he  told  how  this  one  had 
sung  and  that  one  had  recited,  and  'What,'  we  asked, 
'did  you  do*?'  'Oh,  me,'  said  Davie,  1  only  took  off 
my  coat  and  showed  them  my  patched  shirt.'  " 

"It  didn't  matter  at  Anthony's  house,"  Mrs.  Doug- 
las said;  "the  Cochranes  were  well  accustomed  to  the 
vagaries  of  small  boys.  Anthony  and  Davie  made  a 
fuimy  couple.  Anthony  was  so  solemn  and  fat,  and 
so  ashamed  of  Davie's  eccentric  behaviour.  Davie's 
way  of  telling  himself  stories  'out  loud,'  and  going 
round  the  room  gesticulating  wildly,  really  shocked 
Anthony,  who  was  a  most  self-contained  child.  He 
never  showed  surprise,  indeed  he  rarely  ever  showed 
emotion  of  any  sort.  When  he  and  Davie  were  very 
small  and  met  outside,  each  took  off  his  hat  to  the 
other  and  made  a  low  bow.  At  the  first  party  we 
gave  for  Davie,  the  child  was  greatly  excited,  and 
talked  without  ceasing,  jumping  up  and  down  in  his 
chair.  Anthony  was  sitting  next  him  at  the  tea-table 
in  a  green  velvet  suit,  and  he  stood  this  Jack-in-the- 
box  behaviour  as  long  as  he  could,  then  he  turned 
very  quietly,  slapped  Davie's  face  and  resumed  his 
tea  without  having  said  a  word.  And  Davie  bore 
him  no  ill-will;  they  were  fast  friends  from  that 
moment.  D'you  remember  the  two  going  alone  to  a 
party  in  a  cab,  and  they  were  so  thrilled  about  it 
that — we  were  told  afterwards — they  refused  to  do 


2o8   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

anything  but  sit  in  the  hall  and  wait  for  the  cab 
coming  back*?" 

"I  loved  Anthony,"  said  Ann.  "He  took  things 
so  calmly  and  was  so  speechless.  One  afternoon 
when  he  was  with  us  people  began  to  flock  up  to  his 
front  door,  carriages  and  motors  arrived,  and  we 
called  to  him  to  come  and  tell  us  what  occasion  this 
was.  Anthony  looked  at  the  commotion  for  a  min- 
ute, and  then  said,  It  must  be  a  party,'  and  not 
another  word  passed  his  lips.  One  night  we  said 
'Anthony  will  recite.'  He  said  neither  yea  nor  nay, 
and  we  led  him  into  the  middle  of  the  room.  Still 
he  made  no  protest,  but  stood,  drooping  like  a  candle 
in  the  sun,  while  large  tears  coursed  quietly  down 
his  face.  It  must  have  been  good  for  Davie  to  have 
such  a  phlegmatic  friend.  But  I've  seen  Anthony 
wakened  to  enthusiasm.  I  came  home  once  full  of 
Cyrano  de  Bergerac^  and,  of  course,  told  Davie  all 
about  it — I  was  so  pleased  when  I  heard  Davie  say 
after  he  was  grown  up,  'It  was  Nana  made  me  like 
poetry' — and  it  became  his  favourite  game.  He  and 
Anthony  would  crouch  behind  the  sofa,  'behind  the 
walls  at  Arras,'  and  then  jump  wildly  up  shouting, 
'Cadets  of  Gascony  are  we  .  .  .'  Mother,  I  think 
you  and  I  could  talk  for  weeks  on  end  about  Davie. 
•  •  • 

The  door  opened  and  Marget  came  in.  "It's  no' 
nine  o'clock  yet,"  she  said;  "but  Mysie  has  rin  oot 
doon  to  the  cottages — what  wi'  the  mune  and  the 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     209 

snaw  it's  near  as  light  as  day — an'  I  cam'  in  to 
speer  about  your  Life^  Mem.  Hoo's  Miss  Ann 
gettin'  on  wi't^" 

"Not  very  well,  Marget,"  Ann  answered  for  her- 
self. "I'm  going  to  finish  it,  but  it's  a  much  harder 
job  than  I  expected." 

Marget  sniffed.  "I  dinna  see  ony  hardness  aboot 
it.  You  hev  a'  the  facts;  a'  that  you've  got  to  dae 
is  write  them  doon." 

"It  certainly  sounds  very  easy  put  in  that  way," 
Ann  said;  "but  facts  alone  are  dull  things." 

"But  onything  else  wad  juist  be  lees." 

Ann  began  to  laugh.  "But,  Marget,"  she  pro- 
tested, "I  could  put  all  the  facts  of  Mother's  life 
into  one  page — bom,  married,  number  of  children, 
and  so  on;  but  that  wouldn't  be  any  sort  of  record 
to  hand  down  to  the  children.  You  want  all  sorts 
of  little  everyday  touches  that  will  make  them  see 
the  home  that  their  father  was  brought  up  in." 

"Everyday  touches,"  Marget  repeated;  "d'ye 
mean  what  we  hed  for  oor  denners  an'  aboot  washin' 
days?  But  thaes  no  things  to  write  aboot.  I  could 
tell  ye  some  rale  fine  things  to  pit  in  a  book.  One 
Setterday  I  let  in  a  young  man  to  see  the  maister — 
a  rale  weel  pit-on  young  man  he  was,  an'  I  showed 
him  into  the  study,  an'  what  d'ye  think  was  the  very 
first  thing  he  said  to  the  maister?" 

Marget  leant  forward  impressively.  "He  said 
that  he  had  had  a  veesion  to  kill  a  man  an'  had  been 


210  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

guided  to  oor  Manse.  Eh,  I  say !  Sic  a  f  richt  I  got 
when  I  heard  aboot  it  I  It  juist  lets  ye  see  how  care- 
fu'  ye  should  be  aboot  lettin'  folk  in  even  if  they 
look  respectable." 

"And  how  did  Father  get  rid  of  him?'  Ann  asked. 

"You  tell  her,  Mem."  Marget  nodded  towards 
her  mistress,  and  Mrs.  Douglas  said: 

"He  was  a  poor  fellow  whose  brain  had  gone  from 
over-study.  Your  father  talked  quietly  to  him,  and 
said  that  Saturday  morning  was  a  bad  time  to  come, 
and  suggested  that  he  should  put  it  off  till  Monday. 
He  went  away  quite  peaceably,  and  your  father 
went  out  after  him  and  had  him  followed,  for  he 
was  a  dangerous  lunatic.  On  the  Sunday  we  were 
afraid  to  leave  anybody  in  the  house  in  case  he  came 
back,  so  we  all  went  to  church — even  Jim  the  baby ! 
On  the  Mon'day  we  heard  that  he  was  in  an  asylum. 
It  was  a  tragic  case." 

"We  got  some  awfu'  frichts  in  the  Kirkcaple 
Manse,"  said  Marget;  "but  I  dinna  mind  nane  in 
Glesgae ;  we  had  folk  a'  round  us  there.  Eh,  Mem, 
d'ye  mind  the  day  the  maister  brocht  in  the  auld- 
claes  wife?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  began  to  laugh,  and  she  and  Mar- 
get sat  and  shook  in  silent  convulsions  while  Ann 
demanded  to  know  what  they  were  laughing  at. 

At  last  Mrs.  Douglas  steadied  her  voice  enough 
to  say: 

"You  know  your  father  was  always  being  accused 


1 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     211 

of  not  being  cordial  to  people — he  had  naturally 
rather  a  dry  manner.  One  day  I  was  standing  at  the 
study  window  and  saw  an  old-clothes  woman — Mrs. 
Burt  was  her  name — who  came  regularly  to  ask  if 
we  had  anything  for  her,  standing  at  the  gate  as  if 
hesitating  whether  or  not  to  come  in.  Then  I  saw 
your  father  approach,  raise  his  hat,  saw  him  go  up  to 
the  startled  woman  and  shake  her  warmly  by  the 
hand,  and  then  conduct  her  into  the  house.  *Nell,' 
he  shouted,  'here's  an  old  friend  to  see  you — Mrs. 
Beattie  from  Kirkcaple!  She  must  have  some 
lunch.'  " 

"Mrs.  Burt  turned  to  me  a  distressed,  red  face, 
and  I  stared  at  her  wondering  which  of  us  had  gone 
mad. 

"  *Mrs.  Burt  .  .  . '  I  began,  and  then  it  dawned 
upon  your  father  what  he  had  done.  There  was  a 
faint  resemblance  between  the  old-clothes  woman 
and  our  old  friend  Mrs.  Beattie,  who  had  been  such 
a  help  to  us  in  the  Kirkcaple  Church.  For  a  moment 
he  was  absolutely  nonplussed,  and  then  he  began  to 
laugh,  and  he  and  I  reeled  about  while  Mrs.  Burt 
looked  more  alarmed  every  minute.  We  recovered 
in  time,  and  begged  Mrs.  Burt's  pardon  for  the  mis- 
take, and  saw  that  she  had  a  good  dinner;  but  your 
father  said  he  had  got  enough  of  trying  to  be 
'frank' " 

Marget  wiped  her  eyes.  "Eh,  I  say,"  she  said, 
"it  was  an  awfu'  set  oot." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THE  thaw  came  suddenly,  and,  almost   in  a       I 
night,  the  snow  went,  leaving  the  moorlands       ^ 
like  some  vast  sponge.     The  air  was  full  of  the 
rushing  of  a  great  west  wind  and  the  noise  of  run- 
ning water,  as  burns,  heavy  with  spate,  came  tum- 
bling down  the  hillsides. 

Ann  stood  looking  out  at  the  wide  view,  at  the 
hills  purple-dark,  with  drifts  of  snow  still  in  the 
hollows  and  at  the  back  of  dykes. 

"  'As  dull  as  a  great  thaw,'  "  she  quoted.  *'It's 
like  a  giant's  washing  day — such  a  sloppiness  and 
dreariness,  and  that  horrible  steamy  feeling  that  a 
house  gets  when  the  frost  goes  suddenly  and  leaves 
everything  damp,  even  the  walls  and  the  furniture. 
A  new-made  road  is  no  great  treat  in  a  thaw.  I 
stuck,  and  nearly  left  my  big  boots  behind  me  this 
morning.  I  wish  it  would  get  dark  and  we  could 
draw  the  curtains  and  have  tea." 

"I  don't  want  to  grumble,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said, 
turning  the  heel  of  a  stocking  with  a  resigned  air, 
"but  these  last  few  days  have  been  very  long.  No 
post  even!  That  was  the  last  straw.  I've  knitted 
a  pair  of  stockings  for  little  Davie,  and  I've  written 
a  lot  of  letters,  and  I've  tried  each  of  the  library 


212 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     213 

books  in  turn,  but  nowadays  nobody  writes  the  sort 
of  book  I  like.     No,  they  don't,  Ann." 

"But  what  kind  of  book  pleases  you.  Mother? 
I  thought  we  had  rather  a  good  selection  this  week. 
One  or  two  are  quite  interesting." 

"Interesting!"  repeated  Mrs.  Douglas.  "They 
seemed  to  me  the  very  essence  of  dullness.  I  don't 
think  I'm  ill  to  please,  but  I  do  like  a  book  that  is 
clean  and  kind.  I  put  down  each  of  those  books  in 
disgust;  they're  both  dull  and  indecent.  Is  it  easier 
to  be  clever  and  nasty  than  clever  and  clean?" 

"Oh,  much,"  said  Ann  promptly.  "It's  a  very 
hard  thing,  I  should  think,  to  write  a  book  that  is 
pleasant  without  being  mawkish,  whereas  any  fool 
can  be  nasty  and  can  earn  a  reputation  of  sorts  by 
writing  what  Davie  used  to  call  'hot  stuff.'  " 

"Well,  I  wish  some  one  would  arise  who  would 
write  for  the  middle-aged  and  elderly;  there  are  a 
great  many  in  the  world,  and  they  are  neglected  by 
nearly  every  one — fashion  writers,  fiction  writers, 
play  writers — no  one  caters  for  them.  I  like  domes- 
tic fiction,  gentle  but  not  drivelling,  good  character 
drawing  and  a  love  story  that  ends  all  right." 

"In  other  words,"  said  Ann,  "good  print  and 
happy  ending.  What  about  me?  Why  shouldn't 
I  become  the  writer  for  middle-aged  women?  I 
might  almost  call  myself  a  writer  now  that  I  have 
wrestled  for  weeks  with  your  Life,  and  I  believe  I 
would  find  it  easier  to  write  fiction  than  biography — 


214  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

to  leave  what  Marget  calls  'facs'  and  take  to  *lees.' 
Facts  crib  and  cabin  one.  Given  a  free  hand  I 
might  develop  an  imagination." 

*'Who  knows*?  Only  don't  begin  anything  else 
until  you  have  finished  the  job  you  are  at.  I  do 
hate  to  leave  unfinished  work." 

"Oh,  so  do  I,"  said  Ann,  "and  I  mean  to  plod  on 
with  the  Life  to  the  bitter  end — but  I  had  better 
take  bigger  strides  and  cover  the  ground.  From 
Davie's  birth — do  you  remember  he  used  to  say  when 
we  complained  of  his  accent,  'Well,  you  shouldn't 
have  borned  me  in  Glasgow' — on  till  you  went  to 
South  Africa  nothing  of  importance  happened." 

Mrs.  Douglas  stared  at  her  daughter.  "Seven 
years,"  she  said.  "Did  nothing  important  happen 
in  those  years?" 

''Nothing^''  Ann  said  firmly,  "except  that  the  boys 
left  school  and  went  to  Oxford " 

"Oh,  but  Ann,  don't  hurry  on  so.  You  must  put 
in  about  the  boys  doing  so  well  at  school  and  getting 
scholarships  and  almost  educating  themselves.  It 
might  spur  on  that  lazy  little  Rory  to  hear  about 
them  .  .  .  and  you  grew  up." 

"My  growing  up  wasn't  much  of  an  event,"  said 
Ann.  "Indeed  it  was  something  of  a  disaster.  I 
had  been  rather  attractive-looking  as  a  schoolgirl 
because  my  hair  fluffed  out  round  my  face,  but  when 
I  put  it  up  I  dragged  it  all  back  into  a  little  tightly 
hair-pinned  bump.     The  change  was  startling.     I 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     215 

was  like  a  skinned  rabbit.  The  boys  hung  um- 
brellas on  the  bump  and  the  church  people  came  to 
you  and  asked  you  to  make  me  let  down  my  hair 
again  because  they  couldn't  bear  the  look  of  me. 
And  I  wore  a  thick  brown  coat  and  a  brown  hat  with 
red  in  it,  and  I  had  no  more  notion  how  to  dress  my- 
self becomingly  than  a  Kaffir  woman.  I  was  a  poor 
little  object  and  I  kn^w  it.  Then  one  night  I  went 
to  a  party — an  ordinary  Glasgow  party,  full  of  jokes 
and  good  things  to  eat — and  there  I  met  an  artist; 
I  suppose  she  would  be  about  thirty — I  longed  pro- 
digiously to  be  thirty  when  I  was  eighteen ;  it  seemed 
to  me  the  ideal  age — and  she  wore  a  wonderful 
flowing  gown,  and  her  red  hair  was  parted  in  the 
middle  and  lay  in  a  great  knot  of  gold  at  the  nape 
of  her  neck.  I  had  never  seen  anything  like  this 
before — all  your  friends  had  their  hair  tightly  and 
tidily  done  up  and  wore  bodices  with  lots  of  bones — 
and  I  sat  and  worshipped.  I  suppose  she  had  recog- 
nised worship  in  the  eyes  of  the  awkward,  ill-dressed 
young  girl,  for  she  came  and  sat  beside  me  and  talked 
to  me  and  asked  what  I  meant  to  do  in  the  world. 
I  hadn't  thought  of  doing  anything,  I  told  her;  I 
had  a  lot  of  brothers  and  a  busy  mother,  and  I 
helped  at  home.  She  told  me  she  would  like  to  paint 
me,  and  I  was  flattered  beyond  belief  and  prom- 
ised to  go  to  her  studio  the  very  next  day.  Margot 
Stronach  and  everything  about  her  were  a  revelation 
to  me.     I  thought  her  flat — which  was  probably 


2i6   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

rather  tawdry  and  pinned  together :  she  confessed  to 
me  that  she  seldom  bothered  to  sew  things — the  last 
word  in  Art.  Divans  made  out  of  discarded  fea- 
ther beds,  polished  floors,  white  walls  and  blue  jars 
with  cape  gooseberries — what  could  one  want  more? 
I  felt  my  clothes  singularly  out  of  place  in  such  sur- 
roundings, and  I  gave  you  no  peace  until  I  had  got  a 
long  straight-hanging  white  frock  with  gold  em- 
broideries which  the  boys  called  my  nightgown  and 
in  which  I  felt  perfectly  happy.  Margot  certainly 
did  improve  my  appearance  vastly,  you  must  admit 
that.  Mother.  She  made  me  take  a  few  dozen  hair- 
pins out  of  my  poor  hair,  part  it  in  the  middle  and 
fold  it  lightly  back,  and  she  taught  me  the  value  of 
line,  but  she  turned  me  for  the  time  being  into  a  very 
affected,  posing  young  person.  It  was  then  that  I 
turned  your  nice  comfortable  Victorian  drawing- 
room  upside  down  and  condemned  you  as  a  family 
to  semi-darkness  I  I  can't  think  why  you  were  so 
patient  with  me.  The  boys  hooted  at  me,  but  I 
didn't  mind  them,  and  you  and  Father  meekly 
stotted  about,  until  Father  one  afternoon  fell  over  a 
stool  and  spilt  all  his  tea,  whereupon  he  flew  into 
one  of  his  sudden  rages,  vowed  that  this  nonsense 
must  cease,  and  pulled  up  the  blinds  to  the  very 
top." 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed  softly.  "Poor  Ann,  we 
didn't  appreciate  your  artist  friends  much,  but " 

"Oh,  but  Mother,"  Ann  interrupted,   "Margot 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     217 

wasn't  a  real  artist — not  like  Kathleen  and  Jim 
Strang,  or  any  of  the  serious  artists.  She  was  only 
a  woman  with  a  certain  amount  of  money  and  a 
small  talent,  good  looks,  and  a  vast  amount  of  con- 
ceit. Even  my  foolish  young  eyes  saw  that  very 
soon." 

"She  put  me  very  much  about,"  Mrs.  Douglas 
said;  "she  had  such  a  wailing,  affected  way  of  talk- 
ing. I  never  could  think  of  anything  to  say  in 
reply.  Besides,  I  knew  all  the  time  she  was  think- 
ing me  an  ignorant,  frumpish  woman,  and  that 
didn't  inspire  me.  You  admired  her  so  much  that 
you  even  copied  her  voice.  .  .  ." 

Arm  began  to  laugh.  "It  must  have  been  ter- 
rible. Mother.  I  remember  Davie  meeting  Margot 
on  the  stairs,  and  she  knelt  down  and  began  to  talk 
to  him  in  that  wailing,  affected  voice.  Davie  was 
a  little  fellow  and  easily  frightened,  and  he  sud- 
denly clutched  my  dress  and  burst  into  tears,  sob- 
bing 'Nana,  Nana,  it's  the  bandarlog'  Fortunately 
Margot  didn't  know  her  *  Jungle  Book,'  so  she  missed 
the  allusion." 

"What  happened  to  her?"  Mrs.  Douglas  asked. 

"Oh,  Kathleen  told  me  she  had  met  her  some- 
where quite  lately.  She  married  a  rich  business  man, 
stout  and  a  little  deaf — that  was  all  to  the  good! — 
and,  Kathleen  said,  looked  very  fat  and  prosperous 
and  middle-aged.    She  said  to  Kathleen,  'Still  paint- 


2i8   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

ing  away^'  and  Kathleen,  greatly  delighted,  replied, 
'Still  painting  away.'  " 

"Oh,  yes,  Kathleen  would  appreciate  that  remark. 
.  .  .  What  was  your  next  phase,  Ann*?" 

"I  had  no  more  phases,''  said  Ann,  and  got  up  to 
get  a  paper  to  hold  between  her  face  and  the  fire. 
"I  began  to  go  to  London  for  a  month  in  the  spring, 
and  Uncle  Bob  took  me  with  him  when  he  went 
abroad,  and  Mark  took  me  to  Switzerland  to  climb 
— that  was  absolutely  the  best  holiday  of  all — and  I 
had  a  very,  very  good  time." 

"Yes,"  said  her  mother,  "I  remember  a  poor  bed- 
ridden girl  in  the  church  saying  to  me  wistfully, 
*Miss  Ann's  life  is  just  like  a  fairy  tale.'  " 

Ann  nodded.  "It  must  have  seemed  so  to  her, 
poor  child!  And  indeed  I  was  very  fortunate;  I 
had  such  wonderful  brothers.  But  I  never  really 
liked  going  away  from  home  unless  we  went  as  a 
family.  I  hated  to  leave  Davie.  How  quickly  we 
all  seemed  to  grow  up  after  we  left  Kirkcaple, 
Mother ! — Robbie  especially.  It  seems  to  me,  look- 
ing back,  that  he  sprang  quite  suddenly  from  an 
incredibly  mischievous,  rough  little  boy  into  a  gentle, 
silent  schoolboy," 

Mrs.  Douglas  stopped  knitting  and  looked 
thoughtfully  into  the  fire.  "Robbie,"  she  said — 
how  soft,  thought  Ann,  her  mother's  voice  was  when 
it  named  her  boys — "Robbie  changed  quite  sud- 
denly.    Up  to  thirteen  he  was  the  firebrand  of  the 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     219 

household.  Your  father  alone  never  lost  patience 
with  his  wild  laddie.  'Let  him  alone/  he  would  say, 
'he'll  be  the  best  of  the  lot  yet.'  Marget  used  to  say, 
There's  naething  for  it  but  to  make  him  a  sodger; 
the  laddie  canna  get  his  fill  o'  fechtin'.'  I  don't 
know  what  changed  him.  I  think  he  just  got  sense. 
Children  do,  if  you  let  them  alone.  He  began  to  be 
keen  to  take  a  good  place  at  school.  Robbie  had  lots 
of  brains,  Ann." 

"Oh,  brains!  He  was  one  of  the  most  capable 
men  I  ever  knew.  In  India  there  was  no  limit  to 
the  expectations  his  friends  had  for  him." 

"Oh,  Ann,  I  wish  he  hadn't  gone  to  India,  but  his 
heart  was  set  on  it  always.  The  Indian  Army! 
How  he  used  to  talk  to  me  about  it,  and  beg  me  not 
to  make  a  fuss  about  letting  him  go !  I  would  have 
been  so  pleased  if  all  my  boys  had  been  ministers. 
I  used  to  picture  to  myself,  when  you  were  all  little, 
how  I  would  go  from  manse  to  manse,  and  what  a 
proud  mother  I  would  be.  I  never  could  bear  the 
Army  as  a  profession;  your  father  and  I  never  saw 
eye  to  eye  about  that " 

"Poor  Mother,  it  was  too  bad !  You  wanted  nice 
little  clucking  barndoor  fowls,  and  you  found  your- 
self with  young  eagles!  I  know.  It  would  have 
been  a  lovely  life  for  you  to  do  nothing  but  visit 
manses.  I  can  see  you  doing  it.  But  even  you 
stretched  your  wings  a  little.  Was  the  South  Afri- 
can trip  a  silver-wedding  jaunt*?" 


220  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"Yes;  don't  you  remember'?  The  congregation 
gave  us  a  cheque  at  your  father's  semi-jubilee,  and 
that  was  how  we  spent  it." 

"Oh,  the  semi-jubilee  I"  said  Ann.  "That  was  a 
great  occasion.  A  social  meeting,  with  tea  and  cakes 
and  speakers  and  presentations.  Eminent  men 
brought  from  a  distance  to  say  complimentary 
things  to  you  and  Father,  and  all  sorts  of  old  friends 
from  Inchkeld  and  Kirkcaple  came  with  offerings, 
and  so  many  of  them  stayed  with  us  that  the  family 
had  to  be  boarded  out  I  We  acquired  a  lot  of  loot 
at  that  time  in  the  way  of  fitted  dressing-cases  and 
silver  things,  and  we  had  a  gorgeous  silver-wedding 
cake.  Robbie  had  thought  that  vou  couldn't  have 
a  bridescake  unless  you  were  being  married,  and 
when  he  found  he  had  been  mistaken  he  said  the 
only  reason  for  marrying  was  gone  I  It  was  a  glori- 
ous cake.  The  boys  were  all  at  home  for  the  Christ- 
mas holidays,  and  when  they  got  hungry  in  the  fore- 
noon they  would  go  and  cut  chunks  off  it  with  a  pen- 
knife— until  we  had  to  hide  it.  You  didn't  go  away 
directly.  Mums.  It  was  the  next  November  before 
you  left  for  South  Africa,  and  what  a  business  it 
was  getting  you  away  I" 

"  'There's  muckle  adae  when  cadgers  ride,'  "  Mrs. 
Douglas  quoted.  "And  it  was  a  great  undertaking. 
I  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  go,  but  your  father  was 
as  keen  as  a  schoolboy,  and  I  couldn't  let  him  go 
alone,  and  I  couldn't  leave  Davie,  so  the  three  of  us 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     221 

went.  Mark  had  gone  to  London  and  was  settled  in 
his  rooms  in  the  Temple.  Robbie  and  Jim  were 
studying,  and  you  had  invitations  to  fill  up  all  the 
time." 

"I  only  visited  between  the  boys'  vacations,  then 
we  were  all  together  at  Uncle  Bob's.  What  angels 
he  and  Aunt  Katharine  were  to  us !  The  rest  of  the 
time  I  paid  visits,  and  very  nearly  had  a  bad  nervous 
breakdown  through  having  to  be  consistently  pleas- 
ant for  nine  months  at  a  stretch.  You  see,  I  stayed 
with  such  very  different  people,  and  the  effort  to 
adjust  myself  to  each  in  turn  was  rather  wearing. 
When  the  boys  went  back  for  the  summer  term, 
Uncle  Bob  took  Aunt  Katharine  and  me  over  to  Tou- 
raine.  We  stayed  at  Tours,  and  made  expeditions 
all  round  to  the  lovely  old  chateaux,  and  came  home 
by  Paris  and  London  and  finished  up  at  Oxford  for 
Eights'  Week.  Wasn't  it  kind  of  Uncle  Bob'?  Oh, 
I  do  wish  all  the  nice  people  weren't  dead!  Each 
one  that  goes  takes  so  much  of  the  light  away  with 
him.  .  .  .  You  didn't  regret  taking  the  trip, 
Mother?' 

"Not  for  a  minute,  except,  perhaps,  when  Davie 
supped  a  whole  tin  of  condensed  milk  and  nearly 
perished,  and  your  father  was  poisoned  by  a  mos- 
quito bite  and  was  blind  for  two  days.  It  did  me 
a  world  of  good  to  come  across  people  who  had  never 
heard  of  the  United  Free  Church  of  Scotland  and 
who  had  no  desire  to  hear  about  it,  and  who  inter- 


222  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

ested  me  enormously  by  the  way  they  looked  at  life. 
Mark  always  used  to  tell  me  that  with  me  journeys 
ended  in  Mothers'  Meetings,  and  I  was  too  much 
like  that.  I  hadn't,  perhaps,  realised  that  people 
might  be  opposed  to  everything  I  thought  right  and 
proper  and  yet  be  good  people.  I  worried  a  good 
deal  about  you  children  at  home — it  wouldn't  have 
been  me  if  I  hadn't  had  a  trouble — but  your  father 
and  Davie  were  blissfully  happy." 

"You  wrote  splendid  letters,"  said  Ann,  "telling 
every  detail.  Father  hated  writing  letters — we  used 
to  tell  him  that  he  would  rather  walk  five  miles  than 
write  a  p.c. — and  his  efforts  were  quite  short  and 
chiefly  confined  to  statements  such  as :  *What  a  beau- 
tiful blue  the  ocean  is';  'the  veldt  is  much  what  I 
thought  it  would  be.'  Davie  wrote  delicious  letters 
on  oily  scraps  of  paper — oily  because  he  was  gener- 
ally anointed  with  a  lotion  for  mosquito  bites — 
which  invariably  ended :  'Now  I  must  finch  up.'  He 
never  ceased  to  mourn  the  little  mongoose  that 
died  before  he  could  bring  it  home,  but  he  did  fetch 
a  giant  tortoise,  which  snowked  about  at  Etterick 
until  a  specially  cold  winter  finished  it.  And  you 
brought  home  a  gorgeous  fur  rug  and  piles  of  ostrich 
feathers.     How  did  you  collect  so  many  presents?" 

"Well,  you  see,  part  of  the  time  your  father  was 
taking  services  for  a  minister  home  on  leave,  and  the 
kindness  and  hospitality  of  the  people  were  bound- 
less.    And  I  felt  so  mean  about  doing  so  little  to 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     223 

entertain  them  when  they  turned  up  in  Glasgow. 
We  had  a  few  to  stay,  but  most  of  them  were  only 
asked  to  luncheon,  and  it  sounded  so  shabby." 

*'Oh,  but  it's  different  out  there,"  Ann  said  com- 
fortably. "I  felt  I  could  never  repay  the  hospitality 
of  the  people  I  met  in  India.  But  Robbie  didn't  at 
all  take  up  that  attitude.  It's  jolly  nice  for  them  to 
have  you,'  was  what  he  said,  and  I  suppose  he  meant 
that  visitors  from  'home'  are  sure  of  a  welcome  from 
exiles  from  *home.'  You  are  a  stranger  in  the  land 
of  their  adoption,  and  they  want  you  to  see  the  best 
side  of  things.  It  is  different  when  they  come  back, 
then  we  are  all  at  home  together.  Aha,  tea  at  last, 
and  Marget  bringing  it  in  I" 

"Ay,"  said  Marget,  putting  the  kettle  on  the 
spirit-lamp,  and  carrying  the  covered  dish  of  muf- 
fins to  the  brass  stool  in  the  fireplace.  *'Mysie  went 
awa'  doon  to  the  village,  seein'  it  was  fresh  again. 
She's  young,  ye  ken,  and  juist  deein'  for  a  crack  wi' 
some  o'  her  frien's.  There's  a  mune,  and  some- 
body'll  see  her  hame  I've  nae  doot.  Will  I  licht  the 
lichts  the  noo?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  smiled  at  the  old  woman.  '1  think 
we'll  have  tea  in  the  firelight,  Marget.  I'm  glad 
Mysie  has  gone  out  for  a  little.  It's  a  dull  life  up 
here  for  a  young  girl." 

"Oh,  her,"  said  Marget,  dismissing  her  niece  and 
her  possible  dullness  with  a  gesture.  "D'ye  mind, 
Mem,  the  maister  never  likit  his  tea  in  the  dark.    He 


224  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

said  he  couldna  see  the  road  to  his  mooth.  'Marget,' 
he  would  say  to  me,  'let's  have  some  light  on  the 
subject.'     That  was  aye  what  he  said." 

Marget  stood  in  the  firelight  and  looked  at  the 
two  women  at  the  tea-table. 

"D'ye  ken  what  I  was  thinkin'  this  afternoon 
when  I  was  ma  lane^  I  was  thinkin'  how  queer  it 
was  that  a'  oor  men-folk  are  awa'  and  three  wee- 
men's  a'  that's  left." 

"Marget,"  said  Ann,  "what  a  croaking  old  raven 
you  are!  We're  not  alone  for  always.  Mr.  Mark 
and  Mr.  Jim  will  be  back  in  the  spring." 

Marget  shook  her  head  gloomily.  "I've  nae  com- 
fort in  thinkin'  aboot  folk  awa'  ower  the  sea.  It's 
a  terrible  dangerous  thing  to  travel." 

"Yes,  Marget,"  said  her  mistress,  "we've  just 
been  talking.  Miss  Ann  and  I,  about  our  trip  to 
South  Africa.    You  washed  your  hands  of  us  then." 

"Me !  I  never  thocht  to  see  ony  o'  ye  again.  An' 
takin'  wee  Davie  into  sic  danger!  A'  the  sailin' 
I  ever  did  was  from  Burntisland  to  Granton  afore 
they  pit  up  the  Forth  Bridge." 

"You're  as  bad  as  little  Tommy  Hislop,"  said 
Ann.  "I  spoke  to  him  the  other  day — you  know  he 
is  going  out  with  his  mother  to  join  his  father  in 
South  Africa? — and  asked  him  how  he  would  like 
the  big  ship.  'I'm  no  gaun  in  a  ship,'  he  said;  'I 
dinna  like  them.  I'm  gaun  roond  the  road  in  a 
cairt  wi'  ma  Uncle  Jake.' " 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     225 

"He's  a  wise  laddie,"  said  Marget.  "But  it  was 
an  awfu'  set-oot  when  you  gaed  awa'  to  Africa.  An' 
we  thocht  we'd  better  try  and  let  the  hoose  for  the 
winter  and  keep  it  fired,  an'  some  queer  American 
folk  cam'  aboot  it,  kin  o'  missionaries  they  were,  an' 
the  maister  said  they  were  decent  folk  and  let  them 
get  it." 

"Yes,  and  we  knew  nothing  about  them,"  said 
Mrs.  Douglas.  "They  belonged  to  some  sort  of 
religious  sect  in  America,  and  had  come  over  here 
to  do  propaganda  work.  They  seemed  to  live  like 
the  early  Christians,  having  all  things  in  common 
and  taking  no  thought  for  the  morrow,  and  they 
could  only  offer  us  a  nominal  rent;  but  your  father 
talked  to  them  and  thought  them  sincere  and  liked 
them,  so  we  gave  them  the  house.  We  had  a  cellar 
full  of  coal  and  a  cupboard  full  of  jam,  and  we 
asked  them  if  they  would  care  to  take  them  both 
over.  They  said  they  would  have  to  ask  the  Lord, 
and  they  came  back  and  said:  The  Lord  says  we 
may  take  the  coal,  but  not  the  jam,'  and  we  felt  so 
sorry  for  the  funny  little  people  that  we  gave  them 
the  jam.  They  had  the  wildest  of  accents,  and  we 
had  difficulty  in  understanding]:  them  when  they 
asked,  'Is  there  a  crack  in  the  door  to  let  the  mail 
through*?'  and  'Has  the  yard  been  spaded  over  this 
fall?" 

"Wasn't  it  like  our  daft  ways,"  said  Ann,  as  she 
sipped  her  tea,  "to  let  our  house  at  a  ridiculously  low 


226  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

rent  to  people  we  knew  absolutely  nothing  about*? 
You  know,  Mother,  they  held  meetings  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  the  neighbours,  watching  the  people 
troop  in,  shuddered  for  our  carpets.  I  think  it  was 
some  sort  of  faith-healing  that  they  did.  When 
they  left,  a  month  before  you  were  expected  back. 
Aunt  Agatha  and  Jim  and  I  went  to  see  what  the 
house  was  like,  and  arrange  about  having  it  thor- 
oughly cleaned.  We  found  it  in  perfect  condition. 
Two  of  the  women  came  to  see  us  the  night  we  were 
there,  and  told  us  something  of  the  work.  I  asked 
them  how  they  had  kept  the  carpets  so  fresh,  and 
they  said  quite  simply,  'We  asked  the  Lord.'  I 
shall  never  forget  poor  Aunt  Agatha's  face  of  utter 
terror — you  know  her  almost  insane  horror  of  in- 
fection— when  one  of  those  Bible  Christians  said, 
'Would  you  believe  it,  we  cured  a  case  of  smallpox 
in  this  very  room*?'  They  had  replaced  everything 
they  had  broken,  so  they  did  very  well  by  us.  It's 
nice  not  to  have  to  think  hardly  of  Christians,  what- 
ever sect  they  belong  to." 

"That's  true,"  said  Marget,  "but  I  think  the  puir 
bodies  had  leeved  on  cocoa.  Sic  a  cocoa-tins  they 
left  in  a  press!" 

"Ann,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "I've  just  been  think- 
ing, you  should  tell  about  old  Christina  in  my  Life, 
She  was  a  most  interesting  character." 

Ann  shook  her  head  as  she  rose  from  the  tea-table. 
"I've  too  many  old  women  in  it  already.     Besides, 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     227 

I'm  not  going  to  write  just  now.  I'm  going  to  lie 
in  the  most  comfortable  chair  the  room  contains  and 
read  an  article  in  the  Times  Literary  Supplement 
called  'Love  and  Shakespeare.'  Does  that  sound 
good  enough?" 


CHAPTER  XX 

THE  next  evening  when  Ann  sat  down  with  an 
air  of  determination  at  the  writing-table  she 
asked:  "Shall  I  make  another  stride,  Mother *?  Go 
on  another  seven  years?  It's  fine  to  wear  seven- 
league  boots  and  stride  about  as  one  likes  among 
the  years.  What  I  ought  to  do,  really,  before  I 
write  any  more,  is  to  read  one  of  the  books  Mr. 
Philip  Scott  sent  me  this  morning.  They  are  lives 
of  different  people,  and  he  thinks  they  might  help 
me  a  lot  with  yours." 

"It  was  kind  of  him  to  send  them,"  Mrs.  Douglas 
said. 

"Oh,  thoughtful,  right  enough,  as  Glasgow  peo- 
ple say.  I  shall  thank  him  in  a  sentence  I  found  in 
Montaigne — here  it  is.  'They  who  write  lives,'  says 
Montaigne,  'by  reason  that  they  take  more  notice 
of  counsels  than  events,  more  of  what  proceeds  from 
within  doors  than  of  what  happens  without  .  .  . 
are  the  fittest  for  my  perusal.'  Mr.  Scott  will  be 
rather  impressed,  I  should  think." 

Mrs.  Douglas  appeared  to  take  little  interest  in 

Montaigne.    She  was  looking  over  a  book  that  Mr. 

Sharp  had  brought  her  to  read  that  afternoon. 

"Mr.  Sharp  was  telling  me,"  she  said  presently, 

228 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     229 

"how  good  the  Miss  Scotts  are  about  helping  with 
anything  in  the  village.  He  is  very  keen  about  get- 
ting up  a  club  for  the  young  men,  and  he  told  them 
about  it,  and  they  at  once  promised  to  have  that 
empty  house  at  the  top  of  the  village  put  in  order, 
and  their  nephew,  Mr.  Philip  Scott,  sent  a  sum  of 
money  and  is  going  to  supply  papers  and  books  and 
magazines.  Mr.  Sharp  was  quite  excited  about  it, 
quite  boyish  and  slangy  when  he  told  me  about  the 
football  and  cricket  clubs  he  hoped  to  start;  you 
would  hardly  have  known  him  for  the  shy,  douce 
young  man  coming  solemnly  as  a  parson  to  talk  to  an 
old  woman.  I  hadn't  realised  how  young  he  was 
until  to-day." 

''I  wish  I  had  seen  him,"  said  Ann.  "I  hadn't 
thought  of  him  as  caring  for  football  and  cricket. 
When  do  his  people  come^" 

"Oh,  not  till  just  before  New  Year.  And  the 
housekeeper  has  already  begun  to  hold  it  over  his 
head  that  the  extra  work  will  probably  prove  too 
much  for  her,  and  says  that  perhaps  she  ought  to 
go  now." 

"Better  not  tell  Marget  that,"  Ann  warned  her 
mother.  "She  is  so  sorry  for  Mr.  Sharp  that  she 
is  quite  capable  of  going  to  the  Manse  and  publicly 
assaulting  the  woman.  But  he  would  be  much  bet- 
ter to  get  rid  of  her  at  once ;  there  shouldn't  be  much 
difficulty  about  getting  another." 

Mrs.  Douglas  looked  doubtful.     "Better  rue  sit 


230  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

than  flit,"  she  quoted.  "Unless  there  happened  to 
be  a  suitable  woman  in  the  district,  I'm  afraid  it 
wouldn't  be  easy  to  induce  one  to  come  to  such  an 
out-of-way  place.  And  they  ask  such  outrageous 
wages  now.  When  Marget  came  to  me  she  said,  'I 
doot  ye'll  think  I've  an  awfu'  big  wage.  I've  been 
gettin'  seven  pound  in  the  half-year.'  And  she  said 
it  in  a  hushed  voice  as  if  the  very  sound  of  the  sum 
frightened  her." 

Ann  laughed  and  quoted: 

'  "Times  is  changed,*  said  the  cat's-meat  maa. 
'Lights  is  riz,'  said  the  cat's-meat  man,* 

The  days  are  over  when  people  could  be  passing 
rich  on  fourteen  pounds  in  the  year.  Mother,  are 
you  quite  sure  you  want  to  stay  here  over  Christmas? 
It  is  such  a  deadly  time  at  the  best.  Won't  you  go 
and  stay  with  some  of  the  people  who  have  asked 
vtsr 

"No,  I  think  not.  I  wouldn't  like  to  be  with  any- 
one but  my  very  own  at  Christmas  time,  and  it 
would  be  ridiculous  to  bring  the  children  so  far — so 
we  shall  just  stay  quietly  here." 

"Very  well,"  said  Aim.  Then,  after  a  pause, 
"I'm  asking  you.  Mother,  but  you  won't  pay  any 
attention,  where  shall  I  begin  tonight?  I  have 
written  about  the  South  African  trip,  shall  I  go  on 
another  seven  years?" 

"Seven   years,"    her   mother   repeated.      "That 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     231 

makes  Mark  thirty-one.  Oh,  a  tremendous  lot  hap- 
pened in  those  seven  years,  Ann.  Robbie  went  to 
India;  Jim  left  Oxford  and  had  just  finished  his  law 
studies  when  Uncle  Bob  died  and  he  had  to  take 
his  place;  Mark  married;  you  went  to  India.  And 
you  talk  glibly  about  writing  it  in  one  evening." 

"It  is  rather  a  spate  of  events,"  Ann  confessed. 
"Did  they  really  all  happen  in  seven  years,  before 
Davie  was  fourteen?  First,  Robbie  sailed  for  In- 
dia. One  of  the  church  people  who  deeply  deplored 
his  going  said,  'He's  far  ower  bonnie  a  laddie  for 
India.'  " 

"So  he  was,"  said  Robbie's  mother.  "It  was  like 
cutting  off  a  right  hand  to  let  him  go." 

"But,  Mother,"  Ann  said,  "I  don't  think  we  need 
grudge  the  years  he  was  in  India,  for  he  was  never 
really  divided  from  us,  his  heart  was  always  at 
home.  People  there  told  me  that  though  he  loved 
his  work  he  was  always  talking  of  Scotland,  his 
heart  was  full  of  the  'blessed  beastly  place'  all  the 
time.  D'you  remember  his  first  leave?  Long  before 
it  was  sanctioned  he  had  engaged  a  berth  and  given 
us  elaborate;  instructions  about  writing  to  every 
port.  It  was  only  three  months — six  weeks  at  home 
— but  it  was  enough,  he  said,  to  build  the  bridge. 
He  was  just  the  same,  the  same  kind  simple  boy, 
eager  to  spend  his  money  buying  presents  for  every 
one ;  then,  of  course,  his  money  went  done  I  I  can 
see  him  now,  lying  on  the  floor  with  a  bit  of  paper 


232   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

and  a  pencil  trying  to  make  out  if  he  had  any  money 
to  go  back  with.  ...  I  wonder  what  made  Robbie 
so  utterly  lovable"?  If  we  could  only  recapture  the 
charm  and  put  it  into  words — but  we  can  only  re- 
member it  and  miss  it.  I  think  it  was  partly  the  way 
he  had  of  laughing  at  himself,  and  the  funny  short- 
sighted way  he  screwed  up  his  eyes — when  he  missed 
a  shot  he  would  call  himself  a  'blind  buffer.'  I  al- 
ways remember  his  second  leave  as  being,  I  think, 
almost  the  happiest  time  in  my  life." 

"Yes.  It  was  the  last  time  we  were  all  together 
— ^two  years  after  Mark's  marriage.  Mark  took 
Fennanhopes,  which  held  us  all  comfortably,  and 
there  was  good  shooting.  Alis  was  a  year  old,  and 
the  idol  of  her  uncles.  Davie  was  about  fourteen,  I 
suppose.  Robbie  was  particularly  pleased  that 
Davie  showed  signs  of  being  a  good  shot,  and  poor 
Davie  was  so  anxious  to  please  that  he  fired  at  and 
brought  down  a  snipe,  and  then  suffered  agonies  of 
remorse  over  killing  what  he  described  as  'that  wee 
long-nebbit  bird.'  " 

"I  remember  that,"  said  Ann.  "Mother,  wasn't 
it  odd  how  like  Robbie  and  Davie  were*?  Plain  lit- 
tle Davie  and  Robbie  who  was  so  good-looking. 
After  Robbie  was  gone,  when  Davie  and  I  were  to- 
gether in  a  room,  I  used  to  shut  my  eyes  and  make 
myself  almost  believe  it  was  Robbie  talking  to  me — 
and  both  were  so  like  Father.  It  must  have  been 
the  way  they  moved,   and  the  gentle  way  they 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     233 

touched  things — and  the  way  they  fell  over  things  I 
Mark  called  Davie  'light-footed  Ariel/  from  his 
capacity  for  taking  tosses.  They  were  such  friends, 
Father  and  the  four  boys,  and  Father  was  the  young- 
est of  the  lot." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  in  her 
Jap,  looking  straight  before  her.  When  she  spoke 
it  was  as  if  she  were  speaking  to  herself. 

"Robbie  used  to  say  that  it  was  a  mistake  for  a 
family  to  be  too  affectionate,  for  when  we  were 
parted  we  were  homesick  for  each  other  all  the  time. 
But  he  wrote  once :  'Foreign  service  must  be  a  cheer- 
less business  for  the  unclannish.  .  .  .'  " 

"Mother,"  Aim  said  gently,  "I  think  you  can 
almost  say  Robbie's  letters  by  heart.  It  wasn't  so 
bad  saying  good-bye  to  him,  after  his  first  leave — 
at  least,  not  for  me,  for  I  was  going  out  to  him  for 
the  next  cold  weather.  And  Mark's  marriage  was 
our  next  excitement ;  we  were  frightfully  unused  to 
marriages  in  our  family,  for  you  had  no  brothers 
or  sisters  married,  and  Father  had  none.  Had  you 
and  Father  proved  such  an  awful  example  *?" 

"It  is  odd,"  Mrs.  Douglas  agreed;  "but  some  fam- 
ilies are  like  that.  Others  flop  into  matrimony  like 
young  ducks  into  water.  Mark's  engagement  gave 
me  a  great  shock.  It  came  as  a  complete  surprise, 
and  we  knew  nothing  about  Charlotte,  and  it  seemed 
to  me  that  it  must  break  up  everything,  and  that  I 
m.ust  lose  my  boy." 


234  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"It  might  have  meant  that,  Mother,  if  Charlotte 
hadn't  been  Charlotte.  I  know  young  wives  who 
have  taken  their  husbands  completely  away  from 
their  own  people.  I  don't  think  Mark  would  have 
allowed  himself  to  be  taken,  and  I  am  very  sure  that 
Charlotte  never  tried.  How  odd  it  is  to  remember 
that  first  visit  she  paid  to  us  after  she  got  engaged. 
None  of  us  had  ever  seen  her,  and  we  wondered 
what  we  would  talk  to  her  about  for  a  whole  fort- 
night. And  if  it  was  bad  for  us  to  have  a  stranger 
come  in  amongst  us,  how  infinitely  worse  it  was  for 
poor  Charlotte  to  have  to  face  a  solid  phalanx  of — 
possibly  hostile — new  relations!  We  have  often 
laughed  at  it  since,  and  Charlotte  has  confessed  that 
she  had  a  subject  for  each  of  us.  To  you.  Mums, 
she  talked  about  the  poor;  to  Jim,  poetry;  to  Fa- 
ther, flowers;  Davie  needed  no  conversation,  only 
butter-scotch;  my  subject  was  books.  The  great 
thing  about  Charlotte  was  that  she  could  always 
laugh,  always  be  trusted  to  see  the  furmy  side  if 
there  was  one,  and  as  a  family  we  value  that  more 
than  anything.  And  we  are  pagans  in  our  love  for 
beauty,  and  Charlotte  was  very  good  to  look  at. 
We  weren't  really  formidable,  Charlotte  says. 
Father  she  loved  at  once.  Having  no  brothers  of 
her  own,  she  was  delighted  to  adopt  Robbie  and  Jim 
and  Davie.    You  and  I  were  the  snags.  Mother." 

"I?'  said  Mrs.  Douglas  in  a  hurt  voice.  "I'm 
sure  I  tried  to  be  as  kind  as " 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     235 

"Of  course  you  did,  you  couldn't  be  anything  else 
if  you  tried;  but  you  had  just  a  little  the  air  of  a 
lioness  being  robbed  of  its  whelps — and  you  sighed 
a  good  deal.  Mark  and  I  had  been  so  much  to  each 
other  always  that  it  wouldn't  have  been  surprising 
if  Charlotte  had  disliked  the  person  that  she  was, 
in  a  way,  supplanting — ^but  we  both  liked  Mark  too 
well  to  dislike  each  other,  so  we  became  friends.  I 
never  hear  a  joke  now  but  I  think  'I  must  remember 
to  tell  Charlotte  that,'  and  I  never  enjoy  a  book 
without  thinking  1  wish  Charlotte  were  here  that 
we  might  talk  it  over.'  We  have  laughed  so  much 
together,  and  we  have  cried  so  much  together,  that 
I  don't  think  anything  could  come  between  us.  And 
she  has  been  so  good  about  letting  us  share  the 
children — ^What  an  event  the  wedding  was !  D'you 
remember  the  hat  you  chose  for  it  in  the  middle  of 
a  most  tremendous  thunderstorm^  It  didn't  seem 
to  matter  much  what  hat  you  took  for  we  expected 
to  be  killed  any  minute,  and  it  always  rather  solem- 
nised you  to  put  it  on." 

"It  was  too  youthful  for  me,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said 
gloomily.  "Weddings  always  depress  me,  and 
when  it's  one  of  your  own  it's  worse." 

"You  enjoyed  it  in  spite  of  yourself,"  said  her 
daughter.  "I  know  I  enjoyed  it — one  of  the  seven 
bridesmaids  in  pink  and  silver,  and  I  know  Davie 
enjoyed  it,  flying  about  in  his  kilt.  It  was  his  very 
first  visit  to  London,  and  we  took  him  to  The  Scarlet 


236   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

Pimpernel^  to  a  matinee.  When  we  came  out  into 
the  sunny  street  after  three  hours'  breathless  excite- 
ment, he  was  like  an  owl  at  noonday;  I  think  he  had 
forgotten  entirely  that  he  lived  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury. It  was  hard  luck  that  Robbie  couldn't  be  at 
the  wedding.  He  was  so  amused  when  we  wrote 
to  him  about  Father  kissing  the  bride — kissing  was 
an  almost  unheard-of  thing  with  us  in  those  days. 
He  wrote:  'To  think  of  my  elderly,  respectable 
father  kissing  his  daughter-in-law  and  jaunting  over 
to  Paris!  He'll  be  losing  his  job  one  of  these  days.' 
We  went  on  to  Paris  after  the  wedding  and  then 
to  the  Lakes,  and  all  got  more  or  less  seedy.  Father 
and  I  were  the  only  two  who  kept  quite  well,  and  we 
had  to  go  and  buy  hot-water  bags  for  the  rest  of  you. 
Davie  was  in  Jim's  room,  and  in  the  middle  of  the 
night,  feeling  ill,  he  thought  he  would  go  and  tell 
me  about  it,  and  on  his  way  to  my  room  he  saw  in 
the  moonlight  a  statue  on  the  landing,  and  in  his 
fright  he  fell  down  a  whole  flight  of  stairs.  And 
none  of  you  could  eat  the  good  dinners — it  was  all 
very  provoking." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas;  "it  is  very  provoking 
to  pay  for  meals  you  haven't  eaten.  And  no  sooner 
did  we  get  home  than  we  were  all  as  hungry  as 
hunters!  We  had  to  begin  after  that  to  get  your 
clothes  ready  for  going  to  India." 

*'That  was  great  fun.  I  did  enjoy  getting  all  the 
new  frocks  and  the  hundred  and  one  things  I  needed. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     237 

My  bridesmaid's  frock  made  a  very  pretty  evening- 
dress,  and  I  had  a  white  satin  one  for  my  presenta- 
tion, and  a  pale  green  satin  that  was  like  moonlight. 
Robbie  was  dreadfully  given  to  walking  on  my  train 
when  we  went  out  to  dinner;  I  was  usually  an- 
nounced to  the  sound  of  the  rending  of  gathers.  I 
wonder  if  other  people  find  as  much  to  laugh  at  in 
India  as  Robbie  and  I  did*?  Practically  everything 
made  us  laugh.  I  can  never  be  sufficiently  thankful 
that  I  was  allowed  to  have  that  six  months  alone 
with  him.  It  is  something  precious  to  remember  all 
my  life.  .  .  .  But  the  leaving  him  was  terrible.  By 
some  wangling  he  managed  to  get  down  the  river 
with  me;  that  gave  us  a  few  more  hours  together. 
He  had  just  left  me,  and  I  was  standing  straining 
my  streaming  eyes  after  the  launch,  when  another 
boat  came  to  the  side  of  the  ship  and  a  man  sprang 
out  and  came  up  to  me.  It  was  one  of  Martyrs'  young 
men,  Willie  Martin,  a  clerk  in  a  shipping  office,  who 
had  watched  for  my  name  on  the  passenger  list  and 
had  come  to  say  good-bye.  It  was  very  touching  of 
him.    I  expect  I  reminded  him  of  home." 

"His  people  were  so  pleased  that  you  had  seen 
him,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said.  "You  had  to  go  the  min- 
ute you  came  home  and  tell  them  all  you  could 
about  him.  He  never  came  home,  poor  boy !  When 
war  broke  out  he  joined  up  in  India,  and  was  one 
of  the  missing." 

"I  know.     A  decent  laddie  he  was.     When  we 


238   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

were  in  Calcutta  Robbie  and  I  invited  him  to  tea 
one  Sunday  afternoon,  and  he  came,  and  was  so  nice 
and  modest  and  shy ;  Robbie  was  loud  in  his  praises 
because  he  went  away  directly  after  tea.  You  see, 
I  had  got  the  names  of  several  young  men  from  Scot- 
land who  were  in  business  in  Calcutta,  and  we  asked 
them  to  tea  on  Sunday  afternoons,  when  they  were 
free,  and  Robbie  didn't  like  the  ones  who  sat  on  and 
on  making  no  move  to  go  away.  Some  we  had  to 
ask  to  dinner  because  they  hadn't  gone  away  at 
eight  o'clock!" 


CHAPTER  XXI 


(C 


IT  was  our  favourite  occupation,  your 
father's  and  mine,  when  we  had  an  hour 
together  by  the  fire,  to  dream  of  the  good  times  we 
would  have  when  he  retired.  When  we  got  very 
tired  of  plodding  along  with  our  faces  against  the 
wind,  when  people  seemed  indifferent  about  our 
efforts  and  ungrateful,  when  something  we  had  taken 
immense  pains  about  proved  a  failure,  when  term- 
time  came  and  family  after  family  whom  we  had" 
learned  to  count  on  moved  away  to  outlying  sub- 
urbs, leaving  gaps  that  couldn't  be  filled,  your 
father  would  say  to  me,  'Never  mind,  Nell;  it'll  be 
all  over  some  day  and  we'll  get  away  to  the  country,* 
and  we  would  talk  about  and  plan  what  we  would  do 
when  we  had  no  longer  a  congregation  to  tend.  But, 
inside  me,  I  was  always  sceptical  about  the  dream 
ever  coming  true.  I  knew  he  wouldn't  leave  his 
work  until  he  had  to;  and  I  had  visions  of  going  on 
and  on  until  we  were  old  and  grey-headed.  One 
should  never  let  oneself  weary  in  this  world,  for 
everything  stops  so  soon.'* 

Ann  sat  on  the  fender  stool  sharpening  a  pencil, 
very  absorbed  in  the  point  she  was  making.    When 

239 


240  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

it  was  done  to  her  satisfaction  she  turned  round  to 
her  mother. 

"Did  you  really  ever  weary  in  well-doing. 
Mother?  Ah,  well  I  'Rejoice  that  ye  have  time  to 
weary  in.'  But  it  was  a  pretty  uphill  job  you  and 
Father  had  in  that  district.  There  was  one  thing, 
though  the  congregation  was  small  it  was  tremen- 
dously appreciative.  You  remember  Mr.  Gardner, 
the  elder?  I  used  to  like  to  watch  his  face  when 
Father  preached — it  was  a  study.  He  had  the  nicest 
little  doggy  face,  with  honesty  written  all  over  it. 
And  his  friend,  great  big  Mr.  Law  who  sat  in  the 
seat  behind  him — he  was  exactly  my  idea  of  the 
Village  Blacksmith." 

"Mr.  Law  should  have  been  put  into  a  book," 
Mrs.  Douglas  said.  "Don't  you  remember  how  he 
used  to  stand  up  and  square  his  great  shoulders  and 
speak  in  broad  Lowland  Scots?" 

"I  should  think  so.  Mr.  Law's  addresses  were  our 
great  delight.  He  began  one  on  Evolution  with: 
'Some  folk  say  that  oor  great-grandfathers  hoppit 
aboot  on  the  branches.'  He  always  talked  of  'the 
Apostle  Jims,'  and  do  you  remember  the  description 
he  gave  us  of  some  picture  he  had  seen  of  the  'Last 
Judgment,'  by  Michael  Angelo?  I  don't  know 
where  this  masterpiece  is  hung,  but  Mr.  Law  said 
that  it  depicted  'Michael  Angelo  creepin'  oot  o'  a 
hole  aneath  the  throne  and  a  look  o'  hesitancy  on 
the  face  of  God !'    And  he  told  us  one  day  that  he 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     241 

was  sure  the  Apostle  Paul  had  never  been  to  Scot- 
land or  he  most  certainly  would  have  put  on  record 
that  Ben  Lomond  was  the  finest  hill  that  he  had 
ever  set  eyes  on." 

Mrs.  Douglas  smiled.  ''Mr.  Law  was  a  fine  man 
and  a  most  original  speaker,  but  he  felt  so  strongly 
on  certain  things  that  he  was  apt  to  upset  other 
members." 

"Ah,"  said  Aim,  shaking  her  head  wisely,  "one 
dreads  that  class  of  lad  in  a  church." 

"John  Gardner,  on  the  other  hand,"  Mrs.  Doug- 
las went  on,  "was  an  undiluted  blessing  in  the 
church.  He  was  willing  to  do — indeed  he  liked  do- 
ing— all  the  work  that  brought  no  kudos,  all  the  dull 
jobs  that  most  people  try  to  evade.  And  he  was 
always  there.  No  matter  how  bad  the  night,  you 
were  always  sure  that  his  'doggy'  face  would  beam 
on  you.  'Thank  God,'  your  father  used  to  say, 
'thank  God  for  the  faithful  few.'  " 

"Yes,"  said  Ann.  "I  remember  I  was  discussing 
with  the  boys,  in  our  usual  rather  irreverent  way, 
who  of  the  people  we  knew  would  be  'farthest  ben' 
in  the  next  world.  We  denied  admittance  to  quite 
a  number  of  people  famous  for  their  good  works; 
others,  we  thought,  might  just  scrape  in.  'But,'  said 
Mark,  'I  back  Father  and  Dr.  Struthers  and  wee 
Gardner  to  be  sitting  on  the  very  next  steps  of  the 
Throne.'  " 

"Oh,  Ann!"  her  mother  expostulated.     "I  never 


242   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

did  like  the  way  you  and  the  boys  spoke  of  sacred 
things;  it  sounded  so  flippant.  But  'wee  Gardner,' 
as  you  call  him,  was  a  great  gift  to  us.  Oh,  and 
there  were  others  almost  as  good.  And  the  young 
men  and  women  were  really  rather  special." 

"They  were,"  said  Ann.  "The  books  they  read 
and  the  wideness  of  their  interests  put  me  to  shame. 
You  know.  Mother,  it  must  have  been  very  inter- 
esting for  them,  for  they  found  their  whole  social 
life  in  the  church.  What  fun  they  had  at  the  social 
meetings!  I  almost  envied  them.  At  one  social 
a  girl  said  to  me  that  she  wished  the  men  would 
come  up — I  suppose  they  were  talking  and  smoking 
in  the  lower  hall — and  I  said,  stupidly,  that  I 
thought  it  was  nicer  without  the  men,  and  the  girl 
replied  with  some  sagacity,  'you  wouldn't  say  that 
if  they  were  your  own  kind  of  men.'  A  church  is  a 
great  matchmaker.  Old  Mrs.  Buchanan,  talking  one 
day  of  the  young  men  and  maidens  in  the  choir, 
said,  'They  pair  just  like  doos."  There  is  one  good 
thing  about  a  small  congregation — everybody  knows 
everybody  else.  We  were  like  one  big  family.  It 
is  touching  to  hear  them  talk  now  about  those  days ; 
they  look  back  on  them  as  a  sort  of  Golden  Age. 
And  the  presents  they  gave  us !  And  they  were  so 
poor.  Each  of  the  boys  got  a  gold  watch  and  chain 
when  they  left  home,  and  when  I  went  to  India  I 
had  quite  a  collection  of  keepsakes,  some  very  odd, 
but  all  greatly  valued  by  me,  their  owner.    Mother, 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     243 

why  are  you  sitting  *horn  idle/  as  Margct  would 
say?    Have  you  finished  your  knitting*?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  looked  at  her  idle  hands.  "My 
knitting  is  like  Penelope's  web,"  she  said;  "there  is 
no  end  to  it.  Fm  simply  sitting  idle  for  a  change, 
sitting  thinking  about  days  that  are  past,  and  about 
people  I  shall  never  see  again  on  this  side  of  time. 
I  think  a  great  deal  of  Martyrs,  and  I  feel  very  hum- 
ble when  I  think  of  the  affection  and  loyalty  given 
to  us." 

"But,  Mother,  you  can't  have  liked  everybody  in 
the  church.  The  thing's  not  possible.  Think  of 
Mr.  Philip  Scott  and  the  'acid'  he  thinks  necessary, 
and  say  something  really  unkind.  .  .  .  You  know 
you  never  liked  Mrs.  Marshall,  the  elder's  wife — she 
was  a  terrible  tale-bearer,  and  always  making  mis- 
chief." 

"Yes,  she  was,  poor  body.  But,  Arm,  she  was 
kind  when  Rosamund  was  ill,  and " 

Ann  threw  up  her  hands.  "Mother,  you  are  hope- 
less. I'm  not  going  to  try  to  put  any  acid  into  you. 
You're  just  like  strawberry  jam.  I'm  afraid  I've 
got  your  share  of  acid  as  well  as  my  own,  that's  why 
I've  such  an  'ill-scrapit  tongue.'  " 

But  Mrs.  Douglas  wasn't  listening.  She  was 
looking  before  her,  dreaming.     Presently  she  said: 

"Ann,  it  doesn't  seem  a  very  complimentary  thing 
to  say  to  you,  but  I  look  back  on  the  winter  you 
were  in  India  with  very  great  pleasure.    We  were 


244   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

quite  alone,  your  father  and  I,  for  the  first  time  al- 
most since  we  were  married,  and  he  often  said, 
laughing,  'We're  never  better  than  when  we're 
alone,  Nell/  The  letters  were  such  a  pleasure — 
Mark's- every  morning,  Jim's  every  other  morning, 
a  curious  scrawl  from  little  Davie  once  a  week,  and 
on  Saturday  Robbie's  letter  and  your  great  budget. 
Oh,  Ann,  Ann,  why  was  I  not  deliriously  happy? 
All  of  you  well,  all  of  you  prospering,  my  man  be- 
side me,  and  life  full  of  sunlight." 

"Ay,  Mother,  you  should  have  been  down  on  your 
knees  thanking  heaven  fasting — and  if  the  truth 
were  known  I  dare  say  you  were.  But  it's  only 
afterwards  you  realise  how  happy  you  have  been !" 

"Yes,  afterwards,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas.  It  was 
when  you  came  home  from  India  that  you  noticed 
that  your  father  was  failing.  Living  with  him  I 
had  noticed  nothing." 

"There  was  hardly  anything  to  notice.  He  didn't 
walk  with  the  same  light  step.  He  sometimes  won- 
dered why  his  congregation  always  chose  to  live  up 
four  flights  of  stairs,  and  one  night  he  said  to  me, 
half  laughing,  half  serious:  Tm  beginning  to  be 
afraid  of  that  which  is  high.'  But  he  was  well  for  a 
year  or  two  after  that,  till  he  had  the  bad  heart  at- 
tack, and  the  doctor  warned  us  that  it  was  time  he 
was  thinking  of  giving  up  his  work." 

Ann  got  up  and  stood  with  both  hands  on  the 
mantelshelf  looking  into  the  fire. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     245 

"I  remember,"  she  went  on,  "the  curious  unreal 
feeling  I  had,  as  if  the  solid  earth  had  somehow 
given  way  beneath  my  feet  when  I  realised  that 
Father's  life  was  in  danger.  And  then,  when  days 
and  weeks  passed,  and  he  didn't  seem  to  get  worse, 
we  just  put  the  thought  away  from  us  and  told  our- 
selves that  doctors  were  often  mistaken,  and  that  if 
he  took  reasonable  care  all  would  be  well." 

"He  was  only  sixty-one,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said, 
"and  the  doctors  assured  us  that  if  he  gave  up 
preaching  he  might  have  years  of  fairly  good  health. 
He  had  worked  himself  done.  Twenty-two  years  in 
Glasgow  had  been  too  much  for  him." 

Ann  nodded.  "He  never  said  a  word,  but  the 
fact  was  Father  hated  cities.  Rosamund  used  to 
call  the  Park  *the  policeman's  country,'  because  of 
the  notices  to  keep  off  the  grass,  and  she  called 
Etterick  'God's  country.'  Father  longed  all  the  time 
for  'God's  country.'  He  would  have  been  supreme- 
ly happy  as  minister  of  some  moorland  place,  witli 
time  to  write,  and  time  to  love  his  books  and  flowers, 
and  instead  he  had  to  spend  his  days  toiling  up  and 
down  endless  stairs,  never  getting  away  from  the 
sight  of  squalor  and  misery,  doing  the  King's  work 
through  the  unfeatured  years.  And  yet  he  was  per- 
fectly content.  He  was  able  to  find  a  Sabbath  still- 
ness in  the  noise,  and  from  some  hidden  spring  he 
could  draw  wells  of  living  water  to  make  in  that 
dreary  place  a  garden  'bright  with  dawn  and  dew' 


246  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

to  refresh  a  haggard  world.  .  .  .  You  must  have 
felt  very  bad  about  leaving  Martyrs,  Mother? — 
after  all  those  years." 

"Oh.  .  .  .  We  felt  it  to  be  almost  treachery  on 
our  part  to  leave  some  of  those  poor  people.  They 
depended  on  us.  We  considered  whether  we  ought 
to  stay  on  in  Glasgow  and  still  help  a  little,  unoffi- 
cially, as  it  were,  but  you  were  all  against  that,  and 
finally  we  took  a  house  in  Priorsford  to  be  near  Jim. 
I  was  glad  when  it  was  settled,  and  glad  when  those 
last  months  in  Glasgow  were  over.  It  was  miserable 
work  dismantling  the  house  and  packing  up  and 
saying  good-bye." 

''Everything  has  an  end,"  said  Ann,  "  'and  a 
pudden  has  twa,*  to  quote  Marget's  favourite  say- 
ing. But  I  could  hardly  believe  we  were  finished 
with  Martyrs,  that  we  would  tramp  no  more  that 
long  road,  and  sit  no  more  in  that  back  pew  to  the 
side  of  the  pulpit,  and  look  up  at  Father  Sunday 
after  Sunday — Mother,  surely  Father  was  a  very 
good  preacher?" 

Mrs.  Douglas  sat  up  very  straight,  as  if  she  were 
challenging  anyone  to  contradict  her,  and  said 
proudly:  "He  was  the  best  preacher  I  ever  heard. 
And  if  he  were  here  he  would  laugh  at  me  for  say- 
ing so." 

"He  would,"  said  Ann;  "but  I  think  I  agree 
with  you." 

"A  communion  in  Martyrs,"  her  mother  went  on; 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     247 

"what  an  occasion  it  was !  Except  for  length — our 
services  were  always  short — I  expect  it  was  the  same 
service  that  the  Covenanters  held,  fearfully,  as 
hunted  men.  'Following  the  custom  of  our  fathers' 
— can't  you  hear  him  say  it? — your  father  always 
'fenced'  the  tables  and  read  the  warrant.  Then  we 
sung  those  most  mournful  words: 

*  'Twas  on  that  night  when  doomed  to  know 
The  eager  rage  of  every  foe'; 

and  your  father  took  his  place  among  the  elders 
round  the  table  in  the  choir  seat.  He  always  held 
a  slice  of  the  bread,  and,  breaking  it,  said,  'Mark 
the  breaking  of  the  bread,'  and  after  the  tables  were 
served  he  said  a  few  concluding  words.  I  used  to 
listen  for  his  voice  falling  on  the  stillness — 'Com- 
municants !'    It  seemed  to  me  very  beautiful." 

"I  know.  But  what  will  always  remain  with  me 
is  the  way  he  said  the  Benediction.  He  was  a  very 
vigorous  preacher,  my  father.  There  was  no  set- 
tling down  to  sleep  'under'  him.  Sometimes  he 
would  describe  the  fate  of  those  who  wilfully  re- 
fused salvation,  very  sadly,  very  solemnly,  and  then 
he  would  shut  the  big  Bible  and,  leaning  over  the 
side  of  the  pulpit,  he  would  say,  'But,  brethren,  I 
am  persuaded  better  things  of  you.'  Then  came 
the  Benediction,  and  I  listened  for  the  swish  of  the 
silk  of  the  Geneva  gown  as  he  stretched  his  arms 
wide  over  the  people,  and  his  voice  came  healing, 


248   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

soothing,  restful  as  sleep:  'May  the  peace  of  God 
which  passeth  all  understanding  .  .  /  On  that  last 
Sunday — the  last  time  he  ever  preached — he  gave 
us  no  farewell  words,  and  I  was  thankful,  for  he  had 
an  uncanny  gift  of  pathos;  but  he  offered  us,  as  he 
had  offered  us  every  time  he  preached  in  that  pulpit, 
Christ  and  Him  crucified.  We  sang  Tart  in  Peace,' 
and  then  he  looked  round  the  church,  slowly,  search- 
ingly,  round  the  wide  galleries  and  through  the  area. 
Was  he  seeing  again  all  those  brave  old  figures  who 
had  so  loyally  held  up  his  hands  until  they  had  to 
step  out  into  the  Unknown?  In  twenty-two  years 
one  sees  many  go.  Then  he  held  out  his  arms — the 
swish  of  the  Geneva  gown — and  for  the  last  time 
the  listeners  heard  that  golden  voice  saying,  'May 
the  peace  of  God  which  passeth  all  understanding 
keep  your  hearts  and  minds.'  .  .  ." 

There  were  tears  standing  in  Ann's  grey  eyes  as 
she  said,  "I  know  it's  a  ridiculous  thing  to  say,  but 
it  seems  to  me  that  the  people  who  knew  Father 
and  were  blessed  by  him  have  a  better  idea  of  what 
that  peace  means — oh.  Mother,  aren't  we  a  couple 
of  foolish  women  sitting  lauding  our  own!" 

"No,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said  stoutly;  "we're  not.  If 
Martyrs'  people  were  in  the  room  now  I'm  sure  they 
would  say  'Amen'  to  all  you  say  of  your  father. 
And  I  lived  with  him  for  thirty-four  years  and  I 
couldn't  imagine  a  better  man.  He  was  a  saint,  and 
yet  he  was  human  and  funny  and  most  lovable, 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     249 

and  that  isn't  too  common  a  combination.  There 
can  be  nothing  more  terrible  than  to  be  married  to 
a  sanctimonious  saint.  Imagine  being  forgiven  all 
the  time  I  Every  time  you  lost  your  temper  or  spoke 
maliciously  or  unadvisedly,  to  see  a  pained  expres- 
sion on  his  face  I" 

"It    would    drive    one    to    crime,"    said    Ann 
solemnly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

MARGET  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
pleating  her  black  silk  apron  between  her 
fingers.  She  wanted  to  be  asked  to  sit  down,  for 
she  had  heard  Ann  and  her  mother  talking  of  the 
removal  from  Glasgow,  and  she  felt  that  what  she 
had  to  say  on  the  subject  was  of  value. 

"Cornel  and  Mrs.  Moncrieff  '11  be  comin'  next 
week,"  she  reminded  them.  "Fm  airin'  the  rooms 
an'  pitten'  bottles  in  the  beds  noo  for  I'm  never  verra 
sure  aboot  unused  rooms  in  a  new  hoose.  Ye'll  no' 
can  write  when  they're  here,  Miss  Ann.  It'll  tak* 
ye  a'  yer  time  to  crack  wi'  the  Cornel." 

"Oh,  but  it's  a  long  time  till  next  week,  Marget," 
Ann  said,  as  she  went  over  to  the  bureau  to  address 
a  parcel  she  had  been  wrapping  up.  "I'll  have  fin- 
ished my  writing  by  then." 

"Is  that  sweeties  for  the  bairns?"  Marget  asked, 
eyeing  the  parcel  and  sitting  down  as  if  by  accident. 
"Ye'll  file  their  stomachs." 

"It's  only  Miss  Smart's  tablet.     I  never  go  to 

Priorsford  without  getting  them  some  tablet  at  their 

dear  Miss  Smart's.     Rory  said  to  me  solemnly  the 

last  time  he  was  here,  after  a  very  successful  visit  to 

250 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     251 

the  shop,  There's  nobody  in  England  like  Miss 
Smart.'  " 

"I  dare  say  not,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas.  "London 
shops  don't  encourage  small  boys  to  poke  in  behind 
the  counter.  Miss  Smart  is  so  good-natured  that  her 
shop  is  a  sort  of  Aladdin's  Cave  to  all  young  Priors- 
ford — Ann,  have  you  remembered  to  put  in  my  Life 
about  Alis  and  the  others  being  born*?" 

"Goodness  gracious,  I  have  not,"  cried  Ann. 
"But  I  haven't  got  to  that  time  yet,  have  I*?  You 
shouldn't  give  me  unnecessary  frights,  Mother. 
Imagine  leaving  out  Alis !  Davie  would  have  been 
annoyed.  He  was  the  proudest  young  uncle — was 
he  thirteen*? — and  Alis  adored  him.  'My  saucy 
Uncle  Boy'  she  named  him,  when  she  could  speak; 
and  they  were  inseparable.  He  was  a  mixture  of 
playmate  and  kind  old  Nannie  to  her.  If  anyone 
made  Alis  cry,  in  a  moment  Davie  appeared  and 
snatched  her  up  and  dried  her  tears.  'You  don't 
know  how  I  love  my  Uncle  Boy,'  I  heard  her  telling 
some  one.  'He's  my  favourite  of  men.*  No,  Davie 
wouldn't  like  Alis  forgotten." 

"I  used  to  hear  Alis  boast,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said, 
"about  her  young  uncle  to  Mary  Elizabeth,  and 
when  Mary  came  to  stay  she  warned  her,  'He  is  my 
Uncle  Boy,  you  know,  Mary,  not  yours,'  and  Mary 
said  nothing  until  she  got  Davie  alone,  then  she 
whispered  to  him,   'Uncle  Boy,   will   you  be  my 


252   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

Daddy,'  and  thought  she  had  scored  off  poor  Alis 
completely." 

"A'  the  bairns  likit  Davie,"  Marget  put  in.  "He 
had  sic  a  cheery  face  an'  he  was  aye  lauchin'.  I've 
seen  me  lauch  mysel'  in  the  kitchen  when  I  heard 
him  lauchin'  up  the  stairs.  He  fair  hated  to  be 
vexed  aboot  onything.  Ye  mind  when  you  were  ill, 
Mem,  he  took  it  awfu'  ill-oot." 

"All  our  troubles  began  after  we  left  Glasgow," 
Ann  said  gloomily.  "All  those  years  we  had  been 
extraordinary  healthy;  doctors  would  have  starved 
if  they  had  had  to  depend  on  us.  I  know  I  used 
to  look  pityingly  at  sick  people  and  wonder  to  my- 
self if  they  wouldn't  be  quite  well  if  they  only  made 
an  effort.  We  talked  bracingly  about  never  having 
people  ill  in  bed  in  our  house.  'We  treat  our  pa- 
tients on  their  feet,'  we  said,  with  what  must  have 
been  an  insufferably  superior  air.  And  then  we  had 
been  so  lucky  for  so  long;  the  boys  got  everything 
they  tried  for,  and  everything  prospered  with  us, 
so  I  suppose  it  was  time  we  got  a  downing;  but  that 
didn't  make  it  any  easier  when  it  came.  We  left 
Glasgow  knowing  that  father's  health  would  always 
be  an  anxiety;  but  we  didn't  bargain  for  your  crock- 
ing up.  Mums." 

"I'm  sure  I  didn't  want  to  'crock  up'  as  you  call 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  looking  aggrieved. 

"Of  course  you  didn't,"  Ann  hastened  to  soothe 
her  mother's  ruffled  feelings.     Then  she  began  to 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     253 

laugh.  "But  it  was  rather  like  you,  Mother,  to  go 
and  take  a  most  obscure  disease !  We  can  laugh  at 
it  now  because  you  got  better,  but  we  put  in  a  ter- 
rible year.  First  the  removing  to  Priorsford  in  May 
— taking  the  books  alone  was  like  removing  moun- 
tains, though  we  gave  away  armfuls  to  anyone  who 
could  be  induced  to  take  them — and  we  were  no 
sooner  settled  down  in  our  new  house  than  you  began 
to  feel  seedy.  It  began  so  gradually  that  we  thought 
nothing  of  it.  You  looked  oddly  yellow,  and  seemed 
to  lose  strength ;  but  you  said  it  was  nothing,  and  I 
was  only  too  glad  to  believe  it.  When  at  last  we 
got  the  doctor  he  said  you  were  very  seriously  ill, 
sent  you  to  bed,  and  got  a  trained  nurse." 

"Eh,  I  say,"  Marget  began.  "I'll  never  forget 
that  winter.  We  juist  got  fricht  efter  fricht.  It 
was  something  awfu'.  It  was  a  guid  thing  we  left 
the  new  hoose  and  gaed  to  live  wi'  Mr.  Jim." 

"It  was,"  said  Ann;  "we  needed  Jim  beside  us. 
Those  awful  attacks  of  fever  when  you  lay  delirious 
for  days  at  a  time  I  We  dragged  you  through  one 
turn  and  got  you  fairly  well,  only  to  see  you  take 
another.  It  was  most  disheartening.  No  wonder 
poor  Davie  stamped  with  rage.  Doctors  and  nurses 
walked  in  and  out  of  the  house,  specialists  were 
summoned  from  Edinburgh  and  Glasgow.  All  our 
money  was  spent  on  physicians,  and,  like  the  woman 
in  the  Bible,  you  were  none  the  better,  but  rather 
the  worse.     None  of  them  gave  us  any  hope  that 


254  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

you  would  recover.  One  evening  we  were  told  you 
couldn't  live  over  the  night,  and  Mark  and  Char- 
lotte came  flying  up  from  London,  only  to  find  you 
sitting  up  knitting  a  stocking!  I  never  really  be- 
lieved that  you  wouldn't  get  better.  You  weren't 
patient  enough  somehow;  indeed,  my  dear,  there 
was  nothing  of  the  story-book  touch  about  you  at 
all  when  you  were  ill.  What  a  thrawn,  resentful 
little  patient  you  were!  You  occupied  your  time 
when  you  were  fairly  well  upbraiding  me  for  keep- 
ing the  house  so  extravagantly.  You  said  you  were 
sure  there  was  great  leakage.  I'm  sure  there  was, 
but  I  couldn't  help  it.  It  took  me  all  my  time  to 
nurse  you  and  keep  things  comfortable  in  the  house 
and  see  that  Father  didn't  over-exert  himself. 
Marget's  whole  time  was  taken  up  cooking — illness 
makes  such  a  lot  of  extra  work — and,  fortunately, 
we  had  a  very  good  housemaid.  But  if  you  didn't 
shine  as  a  patient,  I  certainly  didn't  shine  as  a  nurse. 
I'm  afraid  I  hadn't  the  gentle,  womanly  touch  of 
the  real  ministering  angel,  smoothing  pillows  and 
such  like.  I  knew  nothing  about  nursing,  and  you 
said  I  heaved  hot-water  bags  at  you." 

"So  you  did;  but  you  were  an  excellent  nurse  for 
all  that.  But,  oh,  I  did  feel  so  guilty  keeping  you 
hanging  round  me.  It  was  more  than  a  year  out  of 
your  life,  just  when  you  would  have  been  having 
such  a  good  time." 

"Oh,"  said  Ann,  "I  don't  grudge  the  year — I've 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     255 

had  heaps  of  good  times.  The  only  really  bad  times 
were  when  the  attacks  of  high  fever  came  and  you 
got  unconscious;  then  you  wouldn't  let  a  nurse  into 
the  room.  Jim  and  I  had  to  sit  up  with  you  for 
nights  on  end.  But  you  were  very  brave,  and  you 
never  let  your  illness  get  on  our  nerves.  You  just 
bounded  up  from  an  attack  like  an  india-rubber  ball. 
The  doctors  simply  gasped  at  you.  You  said  good- 
bye to  us  so  often  that  we  began  to  take  it  quite  cas- 
ually, merely  saying,  'Well,  have  some  beef-tea  just 
now,  anyway';  and  Father  used  to  laugh  and  say, 
'You'll  live  and  loup  dykes  yet.'  " 

"I'm  sure  I  wasn't  at  all  keen  to  live,  Ann.  When 
you  get  very  far  down  dying  seems  so  simple  and 
easy;  but  I  did  want  to  see  Robbie  again.  I  think 
that  kept  me  alive.  When  did  you  take  me  to  Lon- 
don?   In  spring,  wasn't  it?" 

"Yes,  in  March.  You  weren't  getting  a  bit  bet- 
ter, and  some  one  told  Mark  about  the  vaccine  treat- 
ment, and  he  thought  it  might  be  worth  trying.  We 
were  told  that  the  journey  would  certainly  kill  you, 
but  you  said,  'No  such  thing,'  so  off  we  set,  you  and 
I,  all  on  a  wild  March  morning.  You  stood  the 
journey  splendidly;  but  two  days  after  you  arrived 
you  took  the  worst  fever  turn  of  all.  The  London 
doctors  came  and  told  me  you  wouldn't  live  over 
the  night,  and  I  really  thought  they  were  going  to 
be  right  that  time.  I  telephoned  to  Priorsford,  and 
it  was  Davie  answered  me,  *Is  that  you,  Nana?'    I 


256  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

was  sorry  to  worry  the  boy,  but  I  had  to  tell  you 
were  very  ill,  and  that  I  thought  Jim  should  come 
up  by  the  night  train.  But  you  warstled  through 
again,  and  then  Mark  brought  Sir  Armstrong  Weir 
to  see  you.  We  had  seen  several  London  doctors, 
very  glossy  and  well  dressed,  with  beautiful  cars, 
and  we  wondered  if  this  great  Sir  Armstrong  would 
be  even  smarter.  But  the  great  man  came  in  a  taxi, 
and  wasn't  at  all  well  dressed — grey  and  bent  and 
very  gentle." 

"He  looked  old,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said;  "but  he 
couldn't  have  been  so  very,  for  he  told  me  his  own 
mother  was  living.    He  was  very  kind  to  me." 

"He  cured  you,"  said  Ann. 

"Oh  no,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas. 

"Well,  it  was  partly  his  vaccine  and  partly  your 
own  marvellous  pluck." 

"Oh  no.  It  wasn't  pluck  or  vaccine  or  anything, 
but  just  that  I  had  to  live  more  days  on  the  earth." 

"  'Deed  ay,"  said  Marget,  nodding  in  agreement 
with  her  mistress.  "Ye  never  did  ony  guid  until 
ye  had  given  up  doctors  a'thegither.  As  soon  as  we 
got  quat  o'  them  ye  began  to  improve." 

"Now,  now,  Marget,"  said  Ann,  "you  get  carried 
away  by  your  dislike  of  doctors.  We've  been  very 
thankful  to  see  them  many  a  time." 

"Oh,  they're  a'  richt  for  some  things;  but  when- 
ever it's  ony  thing  serious  ye  canna  lippen  to  them. 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     257 

When  there's  onything  wrang  wi'  yer  inside  nae- 
body  can  help  ye  but  yer  Maker." 

Ann  laughed.  "What  a  gloomy  view  to  take, 
Marget.  You  remind  me  of  the  old  lady  who  said 
that  she  gave  to  Dr.  Barnardo's  Homes  'because  he 
has  no  one  to  help  him  but  God.'  I  won't  let  you 
malign  doctors.  The  best  kind  of  doctor  is  about 
the  highest  type  of  human  being.  What  are  you 
snorting  at,  Marget*?" 

"I  could  wish  them  a  better  job !  Hoo  onybody 
can  like  clartin'  aboot  in  folks'  insides !  Doctorin's 
a  nesty  job,  and  I'm  glad  nane  o'  oor  laddies  took 
up  wi't.    They  a'  got  clean,  genteel  jobs." 

"Such  as  soldiering  *?" 

"Oh,  I'm  no'  heed  in'  muckle  aboot  sodgerin' 
aither,"  said  Marget.  Then,  turning  to  her  mis- 
tress, she  said,  "As  you  say,  Mem,  nae  doctor  can 
kill  ye  while  there's  life  in  the  cup.  D'ye  think  it 
was  mebbe  the  flittin'  that  brocht  on  yer  trouble*? 
Ye  ken  ye  washt  a'  the  china  yersel'." 

Mrs.  Douglas  smiled  at  her.  "All  the  years 
you've  known  me,  Marget,  have  you  ever  heard  of 
housework  doing  me  any  harm^  No.  It  was  some 
sort  of  blood-poisoning  that  went  away  as  mysteri- 
ously as  it  came.  Though  what  I  was  spared  for  I 
know  not.  If  I  had  died,  how  often  you  would  have 
said  of  me,  'She  was  taken  from  the  evil  to  come.'  " 

"Poor  darling!"  said  Ann.  "Do  you  think  you 
were   spared  simply  that  you  might  receive  evil 


258  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

things?  Say,  rather,  that  you  were  spared  to  help 
the  rest  of  us  through  the  terrible  times.  .  .  . 
Father,  mercifully,  had  kept  wonderfully  well 
through  your  illness.  He  had  accepted  his  limita- 
tions and  knew  that  he  must  not  attempt  a  hill  road, 
or  fight  against  a  high  wind,  or  move  quickly;  and 
really,  looking  at  him,  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that 
anything  ailed  him." 

"But  it  must  have  been  very  bad  for  him,  Ann, 
all  the  scares  he  got  with  my  illness.  It's  dreadful 
for  me  to  think  that  the  last  year  of  his  life  was 
made  uncomfortable  and  distressed  by  me." 

"But  you  mustn't  think  that.  Even  in  those 
stormy  days  he  seemed  to  carry  about  with  him  a 
quiet,  sunny  peace.  What  a  blessing  we  had  him 
through  that  time;  the  sight  of  him  steadied  one." 

"And  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  have  lived  through  that 
time  without  him,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said;  "although  I 
sometimes  got  very  cross  with  him  sitting  reading 
with  a  pleased  smile  on  his  face  when  I  felt  so 
miserable." 

"I  think  he  really  enjoyed  his  restricted  life,"  said 
Ann.  "To  be  in  the  open  air  was  his  delight,  and 
he  was  able  to  take  two  short  walks  every  day  and 
spend  some  time  pottering  in  the  garden,  going  lov- 
ingly round  his  special  treasures,  those  rock  plants 
that  he  was  trying  to  persuade  to  grow  on  the  old 
wall  by  the  waterside.  We  wanted  him  to  drive, 
but  he  hated  driving;  he  liked,  he  said,  to  feel  the 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     259 

ground  under  his  feet.  He  never  looked  anything 
but  well  with  his  fresh-coloured  face." 

"He  got  younger  lookin',"  Marget  said.  "I  sup- 
pose it  was  no  havin'  a  kirk  to  worry  aboot,  the  lines 
on  his  face  got  kind  o'  smoothed  oot.  D'ye  mind 
when  he  used  to  come  into  the  room,  Mem,  you 
aye  said  it  was  like  a  breath  o'  fresh  air." 

"Yes,  Marget,  I  mind  well.  Neil  Macdonald 
said  when  he  was  staying  with  us  once  that  when 
Father  came  into  the  room  he  had  a  look  in  his  eyes 
as  if  he  had  been  on  a  watch-tower,  'As  if — Neil 
said,  in  his  soft.  Highland  voice — 'as  if  he  had  been 
looking  across  Jordan  into  Canaan's  green  and 
pleasant  land.'  " 

Ann  smiled.  "I  know  what  he  meant.  D'ye  re- 
member Father's  little  Baxter's  Saints'  Rest  that  he 
carried  about  with  him  in  his  pocket  and  read  in 
quiet  moments?  And  his  passion  for  adventure 
books?  I  think  Jim  got  him  every  'thriller'  that 
was  published.  And  the  book  on  Border  Poets  that 
he  was  writing?  He  always  wrote  a  bit  after  tea. 
No  matter  who  was  having  tea  with  us.  Father 
calmly  turned  when  he  was  finished  to  the  bureau, 
pulled  forward  a  chair — generally  rumpling  up  the 
rug,  and  then  I  cried,  'Oh,  Father!' — and  sat  quietly 
writing  amid  all  the  talk  and  laughter.  He  had 
nearly  finished  it  when  he  died.  .  .  .  That  last  week 
he  seemed  particularly  well.  He  said  his  feet  had 
such  a  firm  grip  of  the  ground  now.    I  didn't  want 


26o  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

him  to  go  out  because  it  was  stormy,  and  he  held  up 
one  foot  and  said,  "Dear  me,  girl,  look  at  those 
splendid  soles  I'  " 

Marget  put  her  apron  up  to  her  eyes.  "Eh,  lassie, 
ye' re  whiles  awfu'  like  yer  faither." 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  room  while  the  three 
women  thought  their  own  thoughts. 

At  last  Ann  said,  "What  pathetic  things  we  mor- 
tals are!  That  Saturday  night  when  we  sat  round 
the  fire  my  heart  was  singing  a  song  of  thankfulness. 
You  were  still  frail.  Mother,  but  you  were  wonder- 
fully better,  and  to  have  you  with  us  again  sitting 
by  the  fire  knitting  your  stocking  was  comfort  un- 
speakable. Jim  had  been  reading  aloud  the  Vailitna 
Letters^  and  the  letters  to  Barrie  and  about  Barrie 
sent  us  to  The  Little  Minister^  and  I  read  to  you 
Waster  Luny's  inimitable  remarks  about  ancestors, 
Tt's  a  queer  thing  that  you  and  me  his  nae  ancestors. 
.  .  .  They're  as  lost  to  sicht  as  a  flagon-lid  that's 
fa' en  ahint  the  dresser.'  I  forget  how  it  goes,  but 
Father  enjoyed  it  greatly.  I  think  anything  would 
have  made  us  laugh  that  night,  for  the  mornin's 
post  had  brought  us  a  letter  from  Robbie  with  the 
unexpected  news  that  he  had  been  chosen  for  some 
special  work  and  would  be  home  shortly — he 
thought  in  about  three  months'  time.  And  as  I 
looked  at  you  and  Father  smiling  at  each  other  in 
the  firelight  I  said  in  my  heart,  like  Agag,  'Surely 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     261 

the  bitterness  of  death  is  pastP  and  the  next  day 
Father  died." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sat  silent  with  her  head  bowed,  but 
Marget  said,  "Oh,  lassie  I  lassie  I"  and  wept  openly. 

In  a  little  while  Ann  spoke  again: 

"It  isn't  given  to  many  to  be  'happy  on  the  occa- 
sion of  his  death,'  but  Father  was.  His  end  was  as 
gentle  as  his  life.  He  slipped  away  suddenly  on 
the  Sabbath  afternoon,  at  the  hour  when  his  hands 
had  so  often  been  stretched  in  benediction.  He  died 
in  his  boyhood's  home.  The  November  sun  was 
going  down  behind  the  solemn  round-backed  hills, 
the  familiar  sound  of  the  Tweed  over  its  pebbles 
was  in  his  ears,  and  though  he  had  to  cross  the  dark 
river  the  waters  weren't  deep  for  him.  I  think,  like 
Mr.  Standfast,  he  went  over  'wellnigh  dry  shod/ 
And  he  was  taken  before  the  storm  broke.  Three 
months  later  the  cable  came  that  broke  our  hearts. 
Robbie  had  died  after  two  days'  illness  on  his  way 
to  Bombay  to  get  the  steamer  for  home." 


CHAPTER  XXin 

THEY  had  been  talking  of  many  things,  Ann 
and  her  mother,  and  had  fallen  silent. 

The  wind  was  tearing  through  the  Green  Glen, 
and  moaning  eerily  round  the  house  of  Dreams, 
throwing  at  intervals  handfuls  of  hail  which  struck 
against  the  panes  like  pistol-shots. 

"A  wild  night,'*  Mrs.  Douglas  said,  looking  over 
her  shoulder  at  the  curtained  windows,  and  drawing 
her  chair  nearer  the  fire.  "This  is  the  sort  of  night 
your  father  liked  to  sit  by  the  fireside.  He  would 
lift  his  head  from  his  book  to  listen  to  the  wind 
outside,  look  roimd  the  warm,  light  room  and  give 
a  contented  sigh." 

"I  know,"  said  Ann;  "it  was  very  difficult  doing 
without  Father.  He  had  always  enjoyed  the  good 
things  of  life  so  frankly  there  seemed  no  pleasure 
any  longer  in  a  good  dinner,  or  a  fine  morning,  or  a 
blazing  fire,  or  an  interesting  book,  since  he  wasn't 
there  to  say  how  fine  it  was.  Besides  his  very  pres- 
ence had  been  a  sort  of  benediction,  and  it  was  al- 
most as  if  the  roof  of  life  had  been  removed — and  it 
was  much  worse  for  you,  poor  Mother.  We  were 
afraid  you  would  go,  too." 

■"Oh,  Ann,"  Mrs.  Douglas,  clasping  Hours  of  Si- 
262 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     263 

lence^  raised  tearful  eyes  to  her  daughter,  "I'm  sure 
I  didn't  want  to  live.  I  don't  know  why  I  go  on 
living." 

Ann  caught  her  mother's  hands  in  her  own.  "You 
fimny  wee  body!  You  remind  me  of  the  Paisley 
woman  who  told  me  she  had  lost  all  her  sons  in  the 
war,  and  was  both  surprised  and  annoyed  that  she 
hadn't  died  of  grief.  'An'  ma  neebor  juist  lost  the 
one  an'  slie  de'ed,  and  folk  said  she  niver  liftit  her 
heid  efter  her  laddie  went,  and  here  wis  me  losin'  a' 
mine  and  gaun  aboot  quite  healthy!  An'  I'm  sure 
I  wis  as  vext  as  whit  she  wis.  It's  no  want  o'  grievin' 
for  I'm  never  dune  greetin' — I  begin  early  i'  the 
mornin'  afore  I  get  ma  cup  o'  tea.'  " 

"Oh,  the  poor  body!"  said  Mrs.  Douglas.  "I 
know  so  well  what  she  meant.  It  sounds  funny,  but 
it  isn't  a  bit.  .  .  .  Your  father's  death  was  sheer 
desolation  to  me.  I  remember,  a  long  time  ago  at 
Kirkcaple,  going  to  see  a  widow  who  had  brought 
up  a  most  creditable  family,  and,  looking  round  her 
cosy  kitchen,  I  said  something  about  how  well  she 
had  done,  and  that  life  must  be  pleasant  for  her 
with  her  children  all  up  and  doing  well.  And  the 
brisk,  active  little  woman  looked  at  me,  and  I  was 
surprised  to  see  tears  in  her  rather  hard  eyes. 

"The  bairns  are  a'  richt,"  she  said;  "but  it  maks 
an  awfu'  difference  when  ye  lose  yer  pairtner.  .  .  .' 
And  then  I  have  so  many  things  to  regret.  .  .  ." 

"Regret'?"     Ann  laughed.     "I  don't  think  you 


264   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

have  one  single  thing  to  regret.  If  ever  a  man  was 
happy  in  his  home  it  was  my  father." 

"Ah,  but  I  was  bad  to  him  often.  I  pretended  to 
be  a  Radical — a  thing  I  never  was  really — simply 
from  contrariness.    If  I  had  him  back " 

"Now  what  would  you  change  if  you  could  ^'* 
Ann  asked. 

"Well,  for  one  thing  I  would  never  contradict 
him,  or  argue  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  how  Father  would  have  loathed  that.  Argu- 
ing was  the  breath  of  life  to  him,  and  he  hated  to 
be  agreed  with." 

Mrs.  Douglas  went  on.  "And  I  would  never 
worry  him  to  do  things  that  went  against  his  judg- 
ment. When  people  took  a  tirravee  and  sent  for 
their  lines  he  always  wanted  to  give  them  to  them 
at  once,  but  I  used  to  beg  him  to  go  and  reason  with 
them  and  persuade  them  to  remain.  They  generally 
did,  for  they  only  wanted  to  be  made  a  fuss  of,  but 
I  see  now  I  was  quite  wrong;  people  so  senseless  de- 
served no  consideration.  And  I  wouldn't  worry  him 
to  go  and  ask  popular  preachers  to  come  to  us  for 
anniversary  services  and  suchlike  occasions!  That 
was  the  thing  he  most  hated  doing." 

"I  don't  wonder,"  said  Ann.  "To  ask  favours  is 
never  pleasant,  and  popular  preachers  are  apt  to  get 
a  bit  above  themselves  and  condescend  a  little  to 
the  older,  less  successful  men  who  are  living  in  a 
day  of  small  things.     But  I  don't  think  any  of  us, 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     265 

you  least  of  all,  need  reproach  ourselves  with  not 
having  appreciated  Father.  And  yet,  when  he  went 
away  it  seemed  quite  wrong  to  mourn  for  him.  To 
have  pulled  long  faces  and  gone  about  plunged  in 
grief  would  have  been  like  an  insult  to  the  happy 
soul  who  had  finished  his  day's  work  and  gone  home. 
It  wasn't  a  case  of 

'Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile, 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad.' 

It  was  simply  that  we  had  so  many  happy  things 
to  remember  we  couldn't  but  smile.  We  wouldn't 
have  had  anything  changed.  To  the  very  end  his 
ways  were  ways  of  pleasantness  and  all  his  paths 
were  peace.    But  when  Robbie  died " 

Ann  stopped,  and  her  mother  took  up  her 
words : 

"When  Robbie  died  we  seemed  to  sink  into  a 
black  pit  of  horror.  We  didn't  want  to  see  anyone. 
We  could  hardly  look  at  the  letters  that  poured  in; 
their  lamentations  seemed  to  add  to  our  burden. 
Only  Miss  Barbara's  was  any  use,  and  all  she  said 
was,  1  have  prayed  for  you  that  your  faith  fail 
not.'  " 

"It  seemed  so  unfair^'  Ann  said  slowly.  "In  a 
shop  one  day  the  woman  who  was  serving  me  asked 
so  kindly  for  you,  and  wanted  to  know  how  you 
were  bearing  up.  Then  she  said  suddenly:  'When 
thae  awfu'  nice  folk  dee  div  ye  no  juist  fair  feel 


266  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

that  ye  could  rebel?'  Rebel!  Poor  helpless  mor- 
tals that  we  are!" 

Mrs.  Douglas  shook  her  head.  "If  there  is  one 
lesson  I  have  learned  it  is  the  folly  of  kicking  against 
the  pricks.  To  be  bitter  and  resentful  multiplies 
the  grief  a  thousandfold.  There  is  nothing  for  it 
but  submission.  Shall  we  receive  good  at  the  hand 
of  the  Lord  and  not  receive  evil*?  There  is  an  odd 
text  that  strikes  me  every  time  I  come  to  it:  'And 
David  was  comforted  concerning  A  mm  on  because 
he  was  dead'  I  don't  know  what  it  means,  per- 
haps that  Ammon  fought  with  David  so  David  was 
glad  he  was  dead,  but  it  always  has  a  special  mean- 
ing for  me.  We  had  to  come  to  it,  Ann,  you  and  I, 
when  we  tramped  those  long  walks  by  Tweedside 
rather  than  sit  at  home  and  face  callers  and  sym- 
pathy. It  was  Robbie  himself  who  helped  us  most. 
The  thought  of  him,  so  brave  and  gay  and  gentle, 
simply  made  us  believe  that  in  a  short  time  he  had 
fulfilled  a  long  time,  and  that  God  had  taken  him 
against  that  day  when  He  shall  make  up  His  jewels. 
We  could  only  cling  to  the  fact  that  God  is  Love, 
and  that  it  was  to  Himself  He  had  taken  the  boy 
who  seemed  to  us  so  altogether  lovely." 

Mrs.  Douglas  took  off  her  spectacles  and  rubbed 
them  with  her  handkerchief,  and  Ann  said : 

"Yes,  Mother,  at  moments  we  felt  all  that,  and 
were  comforted,  but  there  are  so  many  days  when 
it  seems  you  can't  get  above  the  sense  of  loss.    Those 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER    267 

nights  when  one  dreamed  he  was  with  us,  and  wak- 
ened. There's  not  much  doubt  about  Death's  sting. 
.  .  .  But  what  kept  me  from  going  under  altogether 
was  the  thought  of  Davie.  I  tried  never  to  let  him 
see  me  with  a  dull  face.  All  his  life  the  child  had 
dreaded  sadness,  and  it  seemed  hard  that  he  should 
so  early  becc«ne  'acquainted  with  grief.'  After 
Robbie's  death,  when  he  came  into  a  room  the  first 
thing  he  did  was  to  glance  quickly  at  our  faces  to 
see  if  we  had  been  crying,  and  if  we  looked  at  him 
happily  his  face  cleared.  If  anybody  mentioned 
Robbie's  name  he  slipped  quietly  out  of  the  room. 
Jim  was  the  same.  I  think  men  are  like  that. 
Women  can  talk  and  find  relief,  but  to  speak  about 
his  grief  is  the  last  thing  an  ordinary  man  can  do. 
That's  why  I  was  sorrier  for  the  fathers  in  the  war 
than  the  mothers.  ...  I  was  glad  Davie  was  at 
college  and  busy  all  day.  I  think  he  dreaded  com- 
ing home  that  Easter." 

"But  I  don't  think  he  found  it  bad,  Ann.  He 
had  his  great  friend  Anthony  with  him,  and  we  all 
tried  our  best  to  give  him  a  good  time.  And  at 
seventeen  it  isn't  so  hard  to  rise  above  trouble." 

"Oh  no,"  said  Ann;  "and  Davie  was  so  willing 
to  be  happy."  She  laughed.  "I  never  knew  any- 
one so  appreciative  of  a  joke — any  sort  of  joke. 
When  he  was  a  tiny  boy  if  I  said  anything  which 
I  meant  to  be  funny,  and  which  met  with  no  re- 
sponse,   Davie   would   say    indignantly:      'Nana's 


268  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

made  a  joke  and  nobody  laughed.'  He  always  gave 
a  loud  laugh  himself — 'Me  hearty  laugh,'  he 
called  it." 

"Oh,  I'd  forgotten  that,"  cried  Davie's  mother; 
"  'me  hearty  laugh.'  We  all  treated  Davie  as  a  joke, 
and  didn't  bother  much  whether  his  school  reports 
were  good  or  only  fairly  good.  He  wasn't  at  all 
studious  naturally,  though  he  was  passionately  fond 
of  reading,  and  I'm  afraid  we  liked  to  find  excuses 
to  let  him  play.  Only  Robbie  took  him  seriously. 
You  remember  when  he  was  home  on  leave  he  pro- 
tested against  Davie  bounding  everywhere  and 
having  no  fixed  hours  of  study.  'We've  got  to  think 
of  the  chap's  future,'  he  said." 

"Robbie  and  Davie  adored  each  other,"  Ann  said. 
"They  were  so  funny  together — Davie  a  little  bash- 
ful with  the  big  brother.  I  remember  hearing  Davie 
telling  Robbie  about  some  Fabian  Society  that  he 
belonged  to,  and  what  they  discussed  at  it,  and 
Robbie  stood  looking  at  him  through  his  eyeglass 
with  an  amused  grin  on  his  face,  and  said,  'Stout 
fellow!'  That  was  always  what  he  said  to  Davie, 
'Stout  fellow !'  I  can  hear  him  now.  .  .  .  But  the 
odd  thing  was  that  Davie  seemed  to  take  no  interest 
in  his  own  future.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  realised 
that  this  world  held  no  future  for  him.  Mark, 
always  careful  and  troubled,  used  to  worry  about 
a  profession  for  him.  He  wanted  him  to  go  into 
the  Navy,  but  you  vetoed  that  as  too  dangerous; 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     269 

it  mustn't  be  India,  because  we  couldn't  part  with 
our  baby." 

Mrs.  Douglas  leaned  forward  to  push  in  a  falling 
log.  "I  was  foolishly  anxious  about  Davie  always; 
never  quite  happy  if  he  was  away  from  me.  I  wor-^ 
ried  the  boy  sometimes,  but  he  was  patient  with  me. 
'Poor  wee  body,'  he  always  said,  and  put  his  arms 
round  me — he  learned  that  expression  from 
Robbie." 

"I  have  an  old  exercise  book,"  said  Ann,  "in  which 
Davie  made  his  first  efforts  at  keeping  accounts — 
David  Douglas  in  account  with  self.  It  is  very 
much  ornamented  with  funny  faces  and  not  very 
accurate,  for  sums  are  frequently  noted  as  'lost.'  It 
stops  suddenly,  and  underneath  is  scrawled,  'The 
war  here  intervened.'  We  didn't  need  to  worry 
about  his  work  in  the  world.  That  was  decided  for 
him  when — 

*God  chose  His  squires,  and  trained  their  hands 
For  those  stern  lists  of  liberty.'  " 

Mrs.  Douglas  caught  her  breath  with  a  sob.  "At 
once  he  clamoured  to  go,  but  he  was  so  young,  only 
eighteen,  and  I  said  he  must  only  offer  for  home 
defence;  and  he  said,  'All  right,  wee  body,  that'll 
do  to  start  with,'  but  in  a  very  short  time  he  was 
away  to  train  with  Kitchener's  first  army." 

"He  was  miserable.  Mother,  until  he  got  away. 
Jim  was  refused  permission  from  the  first,  and  had 


270   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

to  settle  down  to  his  job,  but  for  most  of  us  the 
bottom  seemed  to  have  fallen  out  of  the  world,  and 
one  could  settle  to  nothing.  In  the  crashing  of  em- 
pires the  one  stable  thing  was  that  fact  that  the 
Scotsman  continued  its  'Nature  Notes/  That 
amused  Davie.  .  .  .  He  began  an  album  of  war 
poetry,  cutting  out  and  pasting  in  verses  that  ap- 
peared in  the  Times  and  Spectator  and  Punch  and 
other  papers.  'Carmina  Belli'  he  printed  on  the 
outside.  He  charged  me  to  go  on  with  it  when  he 
went  away,  and  I  finished  it  with  Mark's  poem  on 
himself: 

*You  left  the  line  with  jest  and  smile 

And  heart  that  would  not  bow  to  pain — 

ril  lay  me  downe  and  bleed  awhile^ 
And  then  Vll  rise  and  fight  again' " 

Ann  got  up  and  leaned  her  brow  on  the  mantel- 
shelf, and  looking  into  the  fire,  said: 

"D'you  know.  Mother,  I  think  that  first  going 
away  was  the  worst  of  all,  though  he  was  only  going 
to  England  to  train.  Nothing  afterwards  so  broke 
me  down  as  seeing  the  fresh-faced  boy  in  his  grey 
tweed  suit  going  off  with  such  a  high  heart.  I  don't 
know  what  you  felt  about  it,  but  the  sword  pierced 
my  heart  then.  You  remember  it  was  the  Fair  at 
Priorsford!  and  the  merry-go-rounds  on  the  Green 
buzzed  round  to  a  time  he  had  often  sung,  some 
ridiculous  words  about  'Hold  your  hand  out,  you 
naughty  boy.'     As  I  stood  in  my  little  swallow's- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     271 

nest  of  a  room  and  looked  out  over  the  Green,  and 
saw  the  glare  of  the  naphtha  lamps  reflected  in  the 
water,  and  the  swing-boats  passing  backwards  and 
forwards,  through  light  into  darkness,  and  from 
darkness  into  light,  and  realised  that  Davie  had 
been  born  for  the  Great  War,  every  chord  seemed 
to  strike  at  my  heart." 

"Oh,  Ann,"  Mrs.  Douglas  cried,  "I  never  let  my- 
self think.  It  was  my  only  chance  to  go  on  working 
as  hard  as  ever  I  was  able  at  whatever  came  to  my 
hand.    I  left  him  in  God's  hands.    I  was  helpless." 

The  tears  were  running  down  her  face  as  she 
spoke,  and  Ann  said,  "Poor  Mother,  it  was  hardest 
for  you.  Your  cry  was  the  old,  old  cry:  'Joseph 
is  not,  Simeon  is  not,  and  ye  will  take  Benjamin 
away.  .  .  .'  But  our  Benjamin  was  so  glad  to  go. 
And  he  never  found  anything  to  grumble  at,  not 
even  at  Bramshott,  where  there  was  nothing  fit  to 
eat,  and  the  huts  leaked,  and  the  mud  was  unspeak- 
able, and  his  uniform  consisted  of  a  red  tunic  made 
for  a  very  large  man,  and  a  pair  of  exceedingly  bad 
blue  breeks.  When  he  came  at  Christmas — he  made 
me  think  of  one  of  Prince  Charlie's  men  with  his 
shabby  uniform  and  yellow  hair — how  glad  he  was 
to  have  a  real  wallowing  hot  bath,  with  bath  salts 
and  warm  towels,  and  get  into  his  own  tweeds.  He 
was  just  beginning  to  get  clean  when  he  had  to  go 
again !    In  a  few  weeks  he  got  his  commission,  and 


272   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

in  the  autumn  of  1915  he  went  to  France — 'as  gentle 
and  as  jocund  as  to  jest  went  he  to  fight.'  " 

There  was  a  silence  in  the  pleasant  room  as  the 
two  women  thought  their  own  thoughts,  and  the  fire 
crackled  and  the  winter  wind  beat  upon  the  house. 

Mrs.  Douglas  spoke  first.  "It  was  a  wonderful 
oasis  in  that  desert  of  anxiety  when  Davie  was 
wounded  and  at  home.  Those  nights  when  we  had 
lain  awake  thinking  of  him  in  the  trenches,  those 
days  when  we  were  afraid  for  every  ring  at  the  bell, 
and  hardly  dared  look  when  we  opened  the  hall  door 
after  being  out,  in  case  the  orange  envelope  should 
be  lying  on  the  table.  To  have  all  that  suddenly 
changed.  To  know  that  he  was  lying  safe  and  warm 
and  clean  in  a  white  bed  in  a  private  hospital  in 
London,  'lying  there  with  a  face  like  a  herd,'  Mark 
wrote,  with  nothing  much  the  matter  with  him  but 
a  shrapnel  wound  in  his  leg — it  was  almost  too 
much  relief.  And  we  had  him  at  Queensferry  all 
summer.    We  were  greatly  blessed,  Ann." 

"And  it  wasn't  quite  so  bad  letting  him  go  the 
second  time,"  Ann  said.  "He  had  been  there  once 
and  had  got  out  alive  and  he  knew  the  men  he  was 
going  to,  and  was  glad  to  go  back;  and  Mark  wasn't 
far  from  him,  and  could  see  him  sometimes." 

"His  letters  were  so  cheery.  From  his  accounts 
you  would  have  thought  that  living  in  the  trenches 
was  a  sort  of  jolly  picnic.  Oh,  Ann,  do  you  remem- 
ber the  letter  to  me  written  in  the  train  going  up  to 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     273 

the  line,  when  he  said  he  had  dreamt  he  was  a  small 
boy  again,  and  1  thought  I  had  lost  you,  wee  body, 
and  I  woke  up  shouting  "Mother,"  to  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  other  men  in  the  carriage?'  " 

"Some  people,"  said  Ann,  "go  through  the  world 
afraid  all  the  time  that  they  are  being  taken  advan- 
tage of.  Davie  never  ceased  to  be  amazed  at  the 
kindness  shown  him.  He  was  one  of  those  happy 
souls  whose  path  through  life  is  lined  with  friends, 
and  whose  kind  eyes  meet  only  affectionate  glances. 
His  letters  were  full  of  the  kindness  he  received- — 
the  'decent  lad'  in  his  platoon  who  heard  him  say 
his  dug-out  was  draughty,  and  who  made  a  shutter 
for  the  window  and  stopped  up  all  the  cracks;  the 
two  corporals  from  the  Gallowgate  who  formed  his 
bodyguard,  and  every  time  he  fell  into  a  shell-hole 
or  dodged  a  crump  shouted  anxiously,  'Are  ye  hurt, 
sirr*?'  You  remember  he  wrote:  'These  last  two 
years  have  been  the  happiest  in  my  life,'  and  other 
men  who  were  with  him  told  us  he  never  lost  his 
high  spirits." 

"That  was  such  a  terribly  long,  hard  winter," 
Mrs.  Douglas  said.  "The  snow  was  never  off  the 
hills  for  months.  And  then  spring  came,  but  such 
a  spring !  Nothing  but  wild  winds  and  dreary  sleet. 
We  hoped  and  hoped  that  Davie  would  get  leave — 
he  was  next  on  the  list  for  it — but  he  wrote  and 
said  his  leave  had  gone  'very  far  West.'  We  didn't 
know  it,  but  they  were  getting  ready  for  the  big 


274  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

spring  offensive.  Then  one  day  we  saw  that  a  battle 
had  begun  at  Arras,  and  Davie's  letter  that  morn- 
ing read  like  a  farewell.  'Things  may  be  happen- 
ing shortly,  but  don't  worry  about  me.  I've  just 
been  thinking  what  a  good  life  I've  had  all  round, 
and  what  a  lot  of  happiness  I've  had.  Even  the 
sad  parts  are  a  comfort  now.  .  .  .'  " 

"Mother,  do  you  see,"  said  Ann,  "there's  your 
text  about  Ammon.  Out  there,  waiting  for  the  big 
battle,  Davie  didn't  feel  it  sad  any  more  than  Father 
and  Robbie  had  gone  out  of  the  world — he  was 
comforted  concerning  them  because  they  were  dead. 
We  were  thinking  of  him  and  praying  for  him  every 
hour  of  the  day,  but  he  felt  them  nearer  to  him 
than  we  were." 

"To  think  that  when  that  letter  came  he  was 
dead!  To  think  that  I  was  in  Glasgow  with  Miss 
Barbara  talking  of  him  nearly  all  the  time,  for  Miss 
Barbara  loved  the  boy,  and  nothing  told  us  he  was 
no  longer  in  the  world.  To  think  of  the  child — he 
was  little  more — waiting  there  in  the  darkness  for 
the  signal  to  attack.  He  must  have  been  so  anxious 
about  leading  the  company,  so  afraid " 

"Anxious  maybe,"  said  Ann,  "but  not  really 
afraid.  Don't  you  remember  what  his  great  friend 
Captain  Shiels  wrote  and  told  us,  that  while  they 
waited  for  the  dawn  Davie  spoke  'words  of  comfort 
and  encouragement  to  his  men.'  I  cry  when  I  think 
of  that.  .  .  ." 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     275 

"My  little  boy — ^my  baby.    Away  from  us  all — 
alone,  .  .  ." 

"No.  No,  Mother,  never  less  alone;  'compassed 
about  with  a  great  cloud  of  witnesses.'  I  have  a  no- 
tion that  all  the  great  army  of  men  who  down 
through  the  centuries  have  given  their  lives  for  our 
country's  bright  cause  were  with  our  men  in  that 
awful  fighting,  steeling  the  courage  of  those  boy- 
soldiers.  .  .  .  And  Father  and  Robbie  were  beside 
him,  I  am  very  sure,  and  Father  would  know  then 
that  all  his  prayers  were  answered  for  his  boy — the 
bad  little  boy  who  refused  to  say  his  prayers,  the 
timid  little  boy  who  was  afraid  to  go  into  a  dark 
room — when  he  saw  him  stand,  with  Death  tapping 
him  on  the  shoulder,  speaking  Vords  of  comfort 
and  encouragement  to  his  men.'  I  think  Robbie 
would  say,  'Stout  fellow.'  That  was  the  9th.  The 
telegram  came  to  us  on  the  afternoon  of  the  1 1  th. 
Jim  and  I  were  terribly  anxious,  and  I  had  been 
doing  all  the  jobs  I  hated  most  with  a  sort  of  lurk- 
ing, ashamed  feeling  in  my  heart  that  if  we  worked 
our  hardest  and  did  our  very  best  Davie  might  be 
spared  to  us." 

Ann  stopped,  and  went  on,  half -laughing,  half- 
crying  : 

"Like  poor  Mrs.  Clark,  one  of  my  women.  She 
told  me  how  she  had  gone  out  and  helped  a  sick 
neighbour,  and  coming  home  had  seen  some  children, 
whose  father  was  fighting  and  whose  mother  was 


276   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

ill,  playing  in  the  rain,  and  she  had  taken  them  in 
and  given  them  a  hot  meal.  As  they  were  leaving 
the  postman  brought  her  a  letter  saying  her  son 
was  dead  in  Mesopotamia.  She  said  to_  me,  de- 
fiantly, as  if  she  were  scoring  off  Providence,  I'm 
no  gaun  tae  pray  nae  mair,'  and  I  knew  exactly  what 
she  felt." 

"Oh,  the  poor  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas 
weeping. 

"I  thought,"  Ann  went  on,  "that  if  no  wire  came 
that  day  it  would  mean  that  Davie  had  got  through 
— but  at  tea-time  it  came.  I  went  into  Glasgow 
next  morning  by  the  first  train  to  tell  you.  Phoebe 
was  washing  the  front  door  steps  at  No.  lo,  and  she 
told  me  you  and  Miss  Barbara  were  in  the  dining- 
room  at  breakfast.  I  stood  in  the  doorway  and 
looked  at  you.  You  were  laughing  and  telling  Miss 
Barbara  something  funny  that  had  been  in  one  of 
Davie's  letters.  I  felt  like  a  murderer  standing 
there.  When  I  went  into  the  room  your  face  lit  up 
for  a  moment,  and  then  you  realised.  'It  is  the 
laddie*?'  you  whispered,  and  I  nodded.  You  neither 
spoke  nor  cried,  but  stood  looking  before  you  as  if 
you  were  thinking  very  deeply  about  something, 
then  'I  would  like  to  go  home,'  you  said.  .  .  ." 

"And  to  think,"  Mrs.  Douglas  said,  breaking  a 
long  silence,  "that  I  am  only  one  of  millions  of 
mothers  who  will  go  mourning  to  their  graves." 

"I  know,  Mother.     I  know.     But  you  wouldn't 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     277 

ask  him  back  even  if  that  were  possible.  You 
wouldn't,  if  you  could,  take  'the  purple  of  his  blood 
out  of  the  cross  on  the  breastplate  of  England/ 
Don't  you  love  these  words  of  Ruskin*?  It's  the 
proudest  thing  we  have  to  think  about,  and,  hon- 
estly— I'm  not  just  saying  this — I  believe  that  the 
men  who  lie  out  there  have  the  best  of  it.  The  men 
who  came  back  will,  most  of  them,  have  to  fight  a 
grim  struggle,  for  living  is  none  too  pleasant  just 
now,  and  they  will  grow  old,  and  bald,  and  ill-tem- 
pered, and  they  have  all  to  die  in  the  end.  What 
is  twenty  more  years  of  life  but  twenty  more  years 
of  fearing  death?  But  our  men  whose  sacrifice  was 
accepted,  and  who  were  allowed  to  pour  out  the 
sweet,  red  wine  of  youth,  passed  at  one  bound  from 
glorious  life  to  glorious  life.  *Eld  shall  not  make  a 
mock  of  that  dear  head.'  They  know  not  age  or 
weariness  or  defeat." 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  December  day  had  run  its  short  and 
stormy  course  and  the  sun  was  going  down 
in  anger,  with  streaks  of  crimson  and  orange,  and 
great  purple  clouds.  Only  over  the  top  of  the  far 
hills  was  one  long  line  of  placid  pale  primrose,  like 
some  calm  landlocked  bay  amid  seas  of  tumbling 
waters. 

Mrs.  Douglas,  crossing  the  room  to  get  a  paper 
from  the  table,  paused  at  the  wide  window  and 
looked  out.  Desolate  the  landscape  looked,  the 
stretch  of  moorland,  and  the  sodden  fields,  and  the 
empty  highroad  running  like  a  ribbon  between  hills 
now  dark  with  rain. 

She  sighed  as  she  looked. 

Ann  was  writing  at  the  bureau,  had  been  writing 
since  luncheon,  absorbed,  never  lifting  her  head,  but 
now  she  blotted  vigorously  the  last  sheet,  put  the 
pen  back  in  the  tray,  shut  the  lid  of  the  ink-bottle, 
and  announced: 

"Now,  then.  Mother,  that's  your  Life  written!" 

Mrs.  Douglas  looked  at  the  fijiished  pile  of  manu- 
script and  sighed  again. 

Ann  got  up  and  went  over  to  the  window.    "You 

278 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     279 

are  sighing  like  a  furnace,  Mother.  What's  the 
matter"?  Does  it  depress  you  to  think  that  I've  fin- 
ished my  labours'?  Oh,  look  at  the  sunset !  It  bodes 
ill  for  the  Moncrieffs  ever  getting  over  the  door, 
poor  lambs!  Look  at  that  quiet,  shining  bit  over 
the  Farawa,  how  far  removed  it  looks  from  tem- 
pests I  D'you  know  what  that  sky  reminds  me  of. 
Mother?  The  story  of  your  life  that  I've  just  fin- 
ished. The  clouds  and  the  angry  red  colour  are  all 
you  passed  through,  and  that  quiet,  serene  streak  is 
where  you  are  now,  the  clear  shining  after  rain. 
It  may  be  dull,  but  you  must  admit  it  is  peaceful." 

"Oh,  we  are  peaceful  enough  just  now,  but  think 
of  Jim  in  South  Africa,  and  Charlotte  and  Mark 
in  India — who  knows  what  news  we  may  have  of 
them  any  day?  I  just  live  in  dread  of  what  may 
happen  next." 

"But,  Mother,  you've  always  lived  in  dread. 
Mark  used  to  say  that  the  telegraph  boys  drew  lots 
among  themselves  as  to  who  should  bring  the  tele- 
grams to  our  house.  You  used  to  rush  out  with 
the  unopened  envelope  and  implore  the  boy  to  tell 
you  if  it  were  bad  news,  and  when  you  did  open  it 
your  frightened  eyes  read  things  that  never  were 
on  the  paper.  If  we  happened  to  be  all  at  home 
when  you  were  confronted  with  a  wire  you  didn't 
care  a  bit — utterly  callous.  It  was  only  your  hus- 
band and  your  children  you  cared  about — ah,  well, 
you  had  the  richest,  fullest,  happiest  life  for  more 


28o  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

than  thirty  years,  and  that's  not  so  small  a  thing 
to  boast  of." 

*'0h,  Ann,  Fm  not  ungrateful,  only " 

"Only  you're  like  Davie  when  we  told  him  to  go 
away  and  count  his  blessings.  'I've  done  it,'  he 
came  back  to  tell  us,  'and  I've  six  things  to  be 
thankful  for  and  nine  to  be  unthankful  for.'  " 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed  as  she  went  back  to  her 
chair  by  the  fire  and  took  up  her  knitting.  "No, 
I've  nothing  to  be  unthankful  for,  only  I  think  so 
much  of  me  died  with  your  father  and  Robbie  and 
Davie  that  I  seem  to  be  half  with  you  and  half 
with  them  where  they  are  gone." 

Ann  nodded.  "That  may  be  so,  but  you  are  more 
alive  than  most  of  us  even  now.  I  don't  know  any- 
body who  takes  so  much  interest  in  life,  who  has 
such  a  capacity  for  enjoyment,  who  burdens  her- 
self with  other  people's  burdens  as  that  same  Mrs. 
Douglas  who  says  she  is  only  half-alive  and  longs 
to  depart — and  here  is  Mysie  with  the  tea." 

Mysie  lit  the  lamp  under  the  kettle  and  arranged 
the  tea-things.  She  drew  the  curtains  across  the 
windows,  shutting  out  the  last  gleam  of  the  stormy 
sunset,  and  turned  on  the  lights,  then  she  stood  by 
the  door  and,  blushing,  asked  if  she  might  go  out 
for  the  evening,  as  she  had  an  engagement. 

"Now  where" — cried  Mrs.  Douglas  as  the  door 
closed  behind  the  little  maid — "where  in  the  world 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     281 

can  Mysie  have  an  engagement  in  this  out-of-the- 
world  place  on  this  dark,  stormy  night?" 

Ann  smiled.     "She's  so  pretty,  Mother,  so  soft 
and  round  and  young,  and  have  you  forgotten : 

'For  though  the  nicht  be  ne'er  sae  dark, 

An'  I  be  ne'er  sae  weary  O, 
I'll  meet  ye  by  the   lea-rig, 
Ma  ain  kind  dearie   O.' 


I  haven't  a  doubt  but  that  pretty  Mysie  has  got  a 
'lawd.'  And  what  for  no?  I  do  hope  Marget  isn't 
too  discouraging  to  the  child." 

Ann  sat  on  the  fender-stool  with  her  cup  and 
saucer,  and  a  pot  of  jam  on  the  rug  beside  her,  and  a 
plate  with  a  crumpet  on  her  lap,  and  ate  busily. 

"Life  is  still  full  of  pleasant  things.  Mums,  pretty 
girls  and  crumpets,  and  strawberry  jam,  and  fender- 
stools,  and  blazing  fires,  and  little  moaning  mothers 
who  laugh  even  while  they  cry.  Your  pessimism 
is  like  the  bubbles  on  a  glass  of  champagne — oh, 
I  know  you  have  been  a  teetotaller  all  your  days, 
but  that  doesn't  harm  my  metaphor." 

"Ann,  you  amaze  me.  How  you  can  rattle  on 
as  if  you  hadn't  a  care  in  the  world — you  who  have 
lost  so  much  I" 

Ann  looked  at  her  mother  in  silence  for  a  minute, 
then  she  looked  into  the  dancing  flames.  "As  you 
say,  it  is  amazing — I  who  have  lost  so  much.  And 
when  you  think  of  it,  I  haven't  much  to  laugh  at. 


282   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

I've  got  the  sort  of  looks  that  go  very  fast,  so  Til 
soon  be  old  and  ugly — but  what  about  it"? 


*I  may  never  live  to  be  old/  says  she, 
'For  nobody  knows  their  day.  .  .  .* 


And  I've  got  work  to  do,  and  I've  still  got  brothers, 
and  I've  got  Charlotte  and  the  children,  and  I've 
more  friends  than  I  sometimes  know  what  to  do 
with.  It's  an  odd  thing,  but  I  do  believe.  Mother, 
that  I'm  happier  now  than  when  I  was  twenty  and 
had  all  the  world  before  me.  Youth  isn't  really 
a  very  happy  time.  You  want  and  want  and  you 
don't  know  what  you  want.  As  you  get  older  you 
realise  that  you  have  no  right  to  hliss^  and  must 
make  the.  best  of  what  you  have  got.  Then  you 
begin  to  enjoy  things  in  a  different  way.  Out  of 
almost  everything  that  happens  there  is  some  pleas- 
ure to  be  got  if  you  look  for  it,  and  people  are  so 
funn}^  and  human  and  pitiful  you  can't  be  dull. 
Middle  age  brings  its  compensations,  and,  anyway, 
whether  it  does  or  not  it  is  a  most  miserable  busi- 
ness to  be  obsessed  by  one's  own  woes.  The  only 
thing  to  do  is  to  stand  a  bit  away  from  oneself  and 
say,  'You  miserable  atom,  what  are  you  whining 
about?  Do  you  suppose  the  eternal  scheme  of 
things  is  going  to  be  altered  because  you  don't 
likeitr 

Mrs.  Douglas  laughed  rather  ruefully.    "You're  a 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     283 

terribly  bracing  person,  Ann ;  but  I'm  bound  to  con- 
fess that  you  practise  what  you  preach." 

"But  I've  really  no  right  to  preach  at  all !"  Ann 
said.  "I  always  forget  one  thing,  the  most  im- 
portant of  all.  I've  always  been  perfectly  well,  so 
I've  no  right  to  sit  in  judgment  on  people  who 
struggle  all  their  lives  against  ill-health.  It  is  no 
credit  to  me — I  who  hardly  know  what  it  means  to 
have  a  headache — to  be  equable  and  gay.  When  I 
think  of  some  people  we  know,  fighting  all  the  time 
against  such  uneven  odds,  asking  only  for  a  chance 
to  work  and  be  happy  in  working,  and  knocked 
down  time  and  again,  yet  always  undefeated,  I  could 
go  and  bury  my  head  ashamed.  Don't  ever  listen  to 
me.  Mother,  when  I  preach  to  you;  squash  me  at 
once." 

"Well,  I'll  try  to — but,  Ann,  there  is  one  thing 
that  worries  me.  Remember,  I  will  not  have  you 
sacrifice  your  life  to  me." 

"No  fear  of  that,"  said  Ann  airily.  "There's 
nothing  of  the  martyr  about  me." 

"That    Mr.    Philip    Scott "    Mrs.  Douglas 

hesitated. 

"Oh,  him!"  said  Ann,  "or,  to  be  more  grammati- 
cal, oh,  he !  I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning — 
did  I  forget  to  show  it  you?  He  says  he  is  to  be  at 
Birkshaw  for  Christmas." 

Ann  stopped. 

"Well,  AnnT 


284  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

"Well,  Mother^" 

"Don't  be  provoking,  Ann.  Is  Mr.  Scott  any- 
thing to  you*?" 

Ann  turned  serene  grey  eyes  to  her  mother. 
"Nothing,"  she  said,  "except  a  pleasant  friend. 
That's  all  he  wants  to  be,  I'm  sure." 

"But,  Ann,  don't  you  think  .  .  ." 

"I  never  think.  Mother  .  .  ." 

Ann  caught  the  Tatler  in  her  arms  and  sank  with 
it  into  the  depths  of  an  arm-chair. 

"There's  something  exceedingly  nice  about  being 
a  spinster.  Here's  Marget.  I  shall  ask  her  what 
she  thinks.  Marget,  you  don't  regret  being  a  spin- 
ster, do  you?" 

Marget  came  farther  into  the  room  and  peered 
suspiciously  at  Ann  in  the  arm-chair  with  the  cat 
in  her  arm. 

"Ye' re  no'  gaun  to  pit  it  doon  in  writin'  are  ye? 
Weel,  that's  a'  richt.  To  tell  the  truth  I  hadna 
muckle  encouragement  to  be  onything  else.  I  wasna 
juist  a'thegither  negleckit,  but  I  never  had  a  richt 
offer.  But  lookin'  roond  I've  often  been  thankfu'  I 
wasna  trachled  wi'  a  man.  Ye  see,  livin'  a'  ma  life 
wi'  kin  o'  better  folk  I  wad  ha'  taken  ill  wi'  a  man 
sittin'  in  his  stockin'  feet  and  spittin'  into  the  fire. 
Genteel  service  spoils  ye;  but,  of  course,  a'body's 
no  sae  particlar.  .  .  .  Mysie,  the  monkey,  hes  got- 
ten a  lawd." 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     285 

"What  did  I  say,"  Ann  cried.  "Who  is  he, 
Marget'?" 

"His  name's  Jim  Stoddart,  a  dacent  lawd  and  no 
sae  gawky  as  maist  o'  them.  He  was  an  officer's 
servant  in  the  war,  and  learned  mainners." 

"But,  Marget,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas,  "we're  so  far 
away  from  people  here — how  did  Mysie  meet  him?" 

"Tuts,  Mem,  let  a  lassie  alane  for  that.  If  there's 
a  'come  hither'  in  the  e'e  the  lawd  '11  turn  up, 
though  he  has  to  tramp  miles  o'  heather  and  hard 
road.  I  never  kent  hoo  lassies  did  thon.  I  used 
often  to  watch  them  and  wonder,  but  I  could  niver 
learn — I  was  aye  a  muckle  hoose-end  even  as  a 
lassie,  an'  tricks  wad  hev  ill  become  me." 

"It's  a  wise  woman  that  knows  her  limitations," 
said  Ann.  "I  wish  we  were  all  wise  enough  to  avoid 
being  arch — Marget,  I've  finished  Mother's  Life'' 

Marget  immediately  dropped  into  a  convenient 
chair.     "Let's  hear  it,"  she  said. 

"What!    Now?" 

"What  for  no?    Is't  that  lang?" 

"Long?"  said  Ann;  "like  the  White  Knight's 
song,  but  very  beautiful  I" 

"Aw,  if  ye' re  gaun  to  haver."  Marget  turned 
to  her  mistress.     "What's  it  like,  Mem?" 

"I  don't  know,  Marget,  I've  hardly  seen  a  word 
of  it,  but  it  will  certainly  have  to  be  censored  before 
you  get  it  typed,  Ann." 

"Oh  yes,"   said  Ann.     "You  will  read  It  and 


286   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

'riddle  oot  the  biggest  lees  f  rae  ilka  page/  and  then 
ril  send  it  to  the  typing  lady  Mark  told  me  about; 
if  she  can  make  out  Mark's  handwriting  she  won't 
be  so  aghast  at  mine.  One  copy  for  each  of  our- 
selves and  some  for  very  great  friends " 

Mrs.  Douglas  broke  in.  "If  you  begin  with 
friends  there  will  be  no  end  to  it." 

"Then,  perhaps,  we  had  better  have  it  privately 
printed  and  get  about  a  hundred  copies.  Have  we 
a  hundred  friends?" 

"Liker  twa  hunner,"  Marget  said  gloomily.  "To 
me  it  seems  a  queer  like  thing  to  print  a  body's 
life  when  she's  still  leevin'." 

Aim  quoted,  "That  horn  is  blowen  for  me,"  said 
Balin,  "yet  I  am  not  dead,"  then,  laughing  at  the 
expression  on  Marget's  face,  she  said,  "It's  often 
done,  Marget,  only  you  call  it  'reminiscences.'  Mrs. 
Asquith  wrote  her  reminiscences,  and  you  can't  ac- 
cuse her  of  being  dead." 

Marget  muttered  something,  and  Ann  continued, 
"Mother  is  very  fortunate  to  have  a  daughter  to 
write  hers  for  her." 

"Fortunate!"  said  Mrs.  Douglas.  "I'll  tell  you 
when  I've  read  it." 

"Weel,"  said  Marget,  "I  hope  she  made  it  inter- 
estin',  Mem,  for  I'm  sure  we  hed  a  rale  interestin' 
time  baith  in  Kirkcaple  and  Glasgae — an'  Priors- 
ford's  no  bad  aither,  though,  of  course,  we're  no 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     287 

ministers'  folk  there  an  that  maks  a  big  differ:  we 
havna  the  same  posseetion." 

"Marget,"  said  Ann,  "I  believe  you  think  a  min- 
ister and  his  wife  are  the  very  highest  in  the  land, 
higher  even  than  a  Provost  and  his  lady;  infinitely 
higher  than  a  mere  earl." 

Marget  said  "Earls  I"  and  grunted,  then  she  ex- 
plained, "I  yince  kent  an  earl.  When  ma  faither 
was  leevin'  an'  we  were  at  Kinloch  we  kept  yin  o' 
the  lodges  for  the  big  hoose,  and  I  used  to  see  the 
young  earl  playin'  cricket.  He  minded  me  o'  Joseph 
wi'  his  coat  o'  many  colours,  but,  hech !  he  was  nae 
Joseph.  I  doot  Potiphar's  wife  wad  hae  got  nae 
rebuke  frae  him.  I  dinna  hold  wi'  thae  loose  lords 
mysel'  onyway."  She  turned  her  back  on  Ann  and 
addressed  her  mistress.  "It's  a  queer  thing,  Mem, 
that  the  folk  we  have  to  dae  wi'  now  are  no'  near 
as  interestin'  as  the  folk  we  kent  lang  syne.  I  sit 
by  the  fire  in  the  foresuppers — my  eyes  are  no  what 
they  were,  an'  I  get  tired  o'  sewin'  and  readin' — an' 
I  think  awa'  back  to  the  auld  days  in  Kirkcaple. 
Thae  were  the  days!  When  the  bairns  were  a'  at 
hame.  Eh,  puir  things,  mony  a  skelp  I  hed  at  them 
when  they  cam'  fleein'  wi'  their  lang  legs  ower  ma 
new-sanded  kitchen  I  Thae  simmer's  afternunes 
when  I  went  oot  to  the  Den  wi'  Ellie  Robbie  and 
them  a'  and  we  made  a  fire  and  hed  oor  tea;  an' 
winter  nichts  when  we  sat  roond  the  nursery  fire 
and  telt  stories.    An'  the  neebors  drappin'  in :    Mis- 


288  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

tress  Peat  as  neat  as  if  she  hed  come  oot  o'  a  band- 
box, and  Mistress  Goskirk  tellin'  us  hoo  to  mak' 
jeely — we  kent  fine  oorsels — an'  hoo  to  cut  oot 
breeks  for  the  laddies — we  were  never  guid  at  cuttin' 
oot,  ye'll  mind,  Mem?  An'  Mistress  Dewar  sittin' 
on  the  lobby  chair  knittin'  like  mad  when  I  got  doon 
the  stair  to  open  the  door  for  her,  and  Mr.  Dewar 
sayin'.  Is  it  bakin'  day,  Marget?'  An'  in  Glasgae 
there  was  Mistress  Burnett  comin'  in,  aye  wi'  a 
present,  an  aye  wi'  something  kind  to  say.  Some 
folk  ye  wad  think  tak'  a  fair  delight  in  tellin'  ye 
things  that  chaw  ye,  they  juist  canna  help  bein' 
nesty,  puir  sowls;  ye  mind  Mrs.  Lawrie  was  like 
that,  she  couldna  gang  awa  wi'oot  giving  ye  a  bit 
sting — but  Mistress  Burnett  cheered  up  the  whole 
day  wi'  her  veesit.  An'  Miss  Barbara — she  aye  cam' 
at  the  maist  daft-like  time  so  that  she  wadna  bother 
us  for  a  meal,  her  that  wad  hae  fed  a'  the  earth! 
An'  Mistress  Lang — a  braw  wumman  thon — she 
likit  to  come  in  efter  tea  an'  hae  a  guid  crack.  An' 
Dr.  Struthers — my!  He  pit  us  sair  aboot  when  he 
cam'  to  stay,  but  I  was  rale  pleased,  it  was  like 
haein'  yin  o'  thae  auld  prophets  bidin'  wi'  us.  An' 
the  hoosefu's  we  had  in  the  holidays  when  the 
bairns  grew  up,  we  whiles  didna  ken  whaur  to  turn. 
.  .  .  An'  thae  times  are  a'  past,  an'  here  we  are 
sittin'  an'  a'  the  folk  I've  been  speakin'  aboot  are 
deid,  an'  the  Moncrieffs  are  comin'  the  morn " 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     289 

"And  if  you  don't  keep  the  water  boiling  hot, 
you'll  hear  about  it,"  Ann  warned  her. 

Marget  drew  herself  up.  "If  the  Cornel  speaks  to 
me  as  if  I  were  a  black  oot  in  India  I'll  speir  at 
him  .  .  ." 

"Marget,  more  and  more  you  remind  me  of  the 
late  Queen  Victoria.    You  have  the  grand  manner." 

"Havers  I"  said  Marget. 

Mrs.  Douglas  broke  in.  "You'll  have  to  be  very 
kind  to  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Moncrieff,  Marget.  You 
know  since  we  last  saw  them  they  have  lost  both 
their  sons,  and  from  what  I  hear  they  are  very 
broken." 

Marget  shook  her  head.  "It's  awfu'  hertless  work 
lee V in'  now  that  sae  mony  o'  the  young  folk  are  deid. 
A'  ma  life  I've  been  fear't  to  dee,  an'  at  meetings 
I  never  sang  at  'O  for  the  pearly  gates  o'  Heaven' 
for  fear  I'd  be  taken  at  ma  word,  but  the  ither  nicht 
I  hed  sic  a  bonnie  dream.  I  thocht  I  was  in  an 
awfu'  neat  wee  hoose,  an'  it  was  Johnnie  John- 
ston's hoose — ye  mind  him,  Mem,  at  Kirkcaple? — 
an'  I  said,  'My,  Johnnie,  ye' re  awfu'  comfortable 
here,'  an'  he  says,  'Ay,'  he  says,  'Look  oot  o'  the 
windy.'  An'  there  was  a  great  sea,  a  terrible  sea  wi' 
waves  an'  a'  kinds  o'  wee  boats  on  it,  some  o'  them 
gettin'  an  awfu'  whummlin.  An'  I  says,  'Eh,  is 
that  Galilee?'  an'  he  says,  'Na,  it's  the  Sea  of  Life.' 
An'  he  says,  'Look  oot  at  the  other  windy  noo,'  an' 
here  was  anither  sea,  but  it  was  a  wee  narra  sea  an' 


290  ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

awfu'  quait,  an'  I  says,  Is  that  the  Jordan'?'  'Look 
ower  at  the  ither  side,'  he  says,  an'  I  lookit,  and 
there  was  the  Golden  City.  It  was  the  bonniest 
place  I  ever  saw,  the  very  bonniest^  an'  I  said,  'Eh, 
I  wad  like  awfu'  weel  to  get  ower  there,  Johnnie 
Johnston,  an'  he  said,  'No  the  day,  but  there's 
naething  surer  than  that  ye' 11  get  ower  some  day/ 
An'  wi'  that  I  wakened.  ...  I  was  that  vexed  I 
fair  grat,  but  I'll  mind  ma  dream  an'  it'll  help  me 
when  ma  time  comes  to  gang." 

Marget  wiped  her  eyes  and  then,  as  if  ashamed 
of  having  shown  emotion,  stalked  majestically  from 
the  room. 

Ann  and  her  mother,  left  alone,  sat  looking  into 
the  fire.  For  a  long  time  they  sat.  The  logs  burned 
through  and  fell  together,  but  Ann  did  not  seem  to 
notice  that  the  fire  needed  mending.  The  Tatler 
playfully  clawed  her  hand  to  entice  her  to  a  game, 
but  she  pushed  him  away. 

Mrs.  Douglas  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
"Dear  me,  I've  never  begun  my  'reading,'  and  it 
will  soon  be  dinner-time.  Give  me  my  books  over, 
Ann." 

Ann  rose  and  fetched  the  pile  and  put  them  be- 
side her  mother.  "Biggest  first,"  she  said,  and 
handed  her  Hours  of  Silence. 

Mrs.  Douglas  put  on  her  large  tortoiseshell  spec- 
tacles and  began  at  once  to  read,  but  presently  her 
eyes  strayed  from  the  printed  page  to  her  daugh- 


ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER     291 

ter's  face,  and  she  said,  "Why  are  you  sitting  look- 
ing at  me,  Ann"?" 

"Because  you're  such  a  queer  little  mother  sitting 
there,  with  your  owlish  spectacles  and  your  devo- 
tional books." 

Mrs.  Douglas  sighed,  and  then  she  smiled.  "Poor 
Marget  with  her  'bonnie'  dream  I  I  was  sitting 
thinking  just  now  how  well  off  I  am  having  her  to 
go  back  with  me  to  the  old  days.  As  she  says,  it 
is  heartless  work  living  now,  and  yet  there  is  some- 
thing very  heartening  about  the  continuity  of  life. 
When  I  stay  with  Mark  and  Charlotte  and  see  Mark 
rushing,  the  moment  he  gets  home,  to  his  garden, 
and  watch  him  among  the  flowers,  one  hand  behind 
his  back  in  his  father's  very  attitude,  it  might  be 
my  Mark  with  me  again.  And  Rory,  who  came  into 
the  world  the  day  his  grandfather  went  out  of  it — 
one  Mark  Douglas  going  and  another  Mark  Doug- 
las taking  his  place — Rory  sidles  up  to  me  and  puts 
his  head  on  my  shoulder  when  he  wants  something, 
just  as  his  father  did  thirty  years  ago — I  think  they 
should  stop  calling  him  Rory  now  and  call  him 
Mark." 

"Well,  it's  a  little  confusing  for  Charlotte  to  have 
two  Marks  in  the  house  unless  she  does  as  Marget 
suggests,  and  'ca's  Mr.  Mark  Papaw.'  But  I  know 
what  you  mean  about  the  feeling  of  continuity. 
Last  summer  Alls  and  Rory,  greatly  condescending, 
were  allowing  young  Robbie  to  play  some  game  with 


292   ANN  AND  HER  MOTHER 

them.  I  came  upon  them  suddenly,  and  the  years 
seemed  to  roll  back  when  I  saw  the  earnest  ab- 
sorbed face  of  Robbie  as  he  padded  about — it 
might  have  been  my  own  Robbie.  He,  too,  played 
with  his  whole  might.  .  .  .  Oh,  look  at  the  fire 
going  out  rapidly." 

Ann  knelt  down  and  mended  the  fire  with  great 
care,  sweeping  in  the  ashes  and  making  the  hearth 
clean  and  tidy. 

"I  spent  my  life  tidying  up  this  fireside.  I  might 
as  well  be  a  vestal  virgin  in  a  temple.  There,  that 
will  be  a  fine  fire  when  we  come  back.  Have  you 
finished  your  reading.  Mother?  We  must  go  and 
change.  It's  a  good  thing  the  Moncrieffs  are  coming 
to-morrow.  You  and  I  have  been  living  so  much 
in  the  past  that  we  are  like  two  little  grey  ghosts." 

"Fve  enjoyed  it,"  said  Mrs.  Douglas.  "But  think 
a  long  time  before  you  decide  to  print  what  you've 
written." 

She  gathered  up  her  devotional  books  and  built 
them  in  a  neat  pile  on  a  table. 

"I  wonder  who  you  think  could  possibly  be  inter- 
ested in  such  an  uneventful  record?  All  about  noth- 
ing, and  not  even  an  end " 

"I  wonder^''  said  Ann. 

THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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